I'm dying, cold brittle inside, crackling and quaking. I feel the thinnest of skin break open as something familiar, cold and smooth sliced through the finest skin ever known, marked previously from other memories. A pain that is controversial in its nature, one that is kind and comforting in its irony.
I find the scarlet drapes fascinating, strung about in it's own fashion sense. How can something so insecure, and ugly, feel so secure in one's darkest moments? Like a sweater wrapping itself around me, my sleeve to wipe away the tears that streamed previously. A warm knit sweater, a safety blanket for one. Ironic how we use pain to hide our own.
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Compel
Short StoryI remembered this feeling, It's all too familiar. My lungs filled with the same smoke, a kind that makes you feel everything, making me weak and fumble minded.
