The rage sung under my skin, as though every tendon was a string to be roughly grabbed, pulled, plucked, forced to play a harsh melody. An invisible fire, it blazed silently, just out of sight, simultaneously destroying everything inside, and building me up, filling me with an energy that raced round and round and round, searching for a break in the loop, for an escape. Like a song on repeat, every time I hit the end, I found myself at the beginning again, screeching along, the strings worn and sensitive from the endless scratching.
Helplessness beat across and alongside, pulsing in a sharp, irregular pattern. Like fists against brick, it pounded and pounded and pounded. Until it was as raw as the rage from the effort. Then, it rested, curled up, small, quiet, submissive with exhaustion. Eventually, the beating would begin once more, insistent, demanding, begging, pleading, meaningless, worthless.
The indignation and humiliation twisted into a soft harmony just underneath the screaming, overwhelming rage. It was subtle, unsure of itself, almost voiceless altogether. It filled the moments between the strenuous screeching, when the hopelessness was too tired to keep beating. They weren't quite noticeable, but they still refused to give silence a place where an end could wedge its way in.
The indignation stayed, giving the song an endless drive. The humiliation clung, keeping the song from ending.
Keeping it from being turned on and off at the press of a button. Keeping it from being so carelessly controlled.
It wasn't pretty. It wasn't a masterpiece. But it was there.
And it wasn't over yet.
YOU ARE READING
Proof of Life
Short StorySmall writing exercises as proof that not only am I not dead, but that I'm also not abandoning writing contrary to the evidence. Will include short stories, descriptive or exploratory exercises, free writes, and poems. (Some of which may be from cla...
