Gloaming

Damaged

Cynthia's POV
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I don't really need to go to the bathroom, for my bladder is pretty much invincible these days.

I need to feel my emotions.
I need to be entirely sure they exist.
Because sometimes I really don't know.

I sit in the gas station bathroom and cry, tears and snot streaming down my nose, soft sobs leaving my heart.

I loved Amelia. I love Amelia.

She's the best, the only piece of joy in the world. The only thing that made me happy that wasn't Kenya.

Kenya isn't even happy anymore though.

So maybe it was only Amelia.

Now that's gone, and it feels as if I've lost everything.

I'm gonna miss peekaboo.

What is this?

How is this living? Surviving isn't living.

I feel pointless. It feels pointless.

I wipe my tears with my hands.
And they come down again.
And I wipe them again.
And they come down again.

And I don't wipe them, because I want to feel them.

I look at myself in the graffitied mirror. I don't look like Cindy anymore.
My hair is tattered and matted and barely up to my chin. My face is caked with grease dirt and tears. I look damaged. I'm not me.

I walk out of the bathroom, back to Kenya, regardless of my red nose, the tear on my cheek, and my dripping nose.

"Is everything okay" She says, worry and concern floating in her vocal cords.

"No" I say confidently and blandly. Honesty.

Then we keep walking to the big building. Because that's all that's left.

What's left?

That.
That's it.
The intention to stay alive is all I have anymore.
This really isn't living.
Why survive when it isn't living?