The days pass in a haze now.
It twists and shapes itself into a big, ugly ball that I can't quite control anymore, oozing out the hurt, the pain that I feel, just like the crimson that spills out from my arm with every new wound.
My hands shake with each passing day, a chill and weariness that is bone-deep.
And yet, even as my blade tears into ruined, ugly skin, I feel nothing but numb.
Is that a sin?
Is this wrong?
Am I doing you a favour, after all?
I see you sometimes, from the corner of my eyes, looking so, so sad and so, so ruined.
Then, as I turn to look away, your eyes always, always lands on me. Without a doubt, without any fail.
And in place of the pain, there lies anger, and a bitter, dirty satisfaction that I am lower than low.
So does this make you happy then?
The fact that you have torn me to pieces.
And that even if you gather up my crumbled parts, even if you set fire to what lingers on, I will do nothing but watch.
Because I am not who I used to be.
You made sure of that.
So I hope that you are happy.
For I am not.
Not for a long time.
Not anymore.
YOU ARE READING
timeless
Short StoryShe was one who used to smile, who used to be happy. A dream that eventually crumbled to pieces, leaving behind nothing but nightmares and a world full of pain. He was one who had been angry, who still was so, so angry and so, so lonely. He was the...
