Asylum

Angels

The angels are sad today. My window feels cold as I lay my hand on it, staring out at the rain pouring down from the grey sky above me. When I was little, I used to believe that the sky could feel empathy, because it would only rain when I was sad. Then again, I'm always sad. Considering where I live, I shouldn't be surprised by the Sky's supposed empathy. They tell me to look away. To stop crying. So I do as they tell me, because they will punish me if I don't. They torture me in so many ways, dangling me over the edge of an eighteen story high building, or putting me in a noose, but giving me a knife so that I'll be able to cut myself down. The worst time was when they broke the vase on my dresser. My mother had given me that vase, telling me that it would help me to get better whenever the sadness overwhelmed me. Then they cut me with the vase's shards. My blood had dripped onto my carpet, in sync with the never ending flow of tears. Sometimes I look over fondly at the stains in my once-white carpet, in love with the blood dried there, my only reminder of my mother. She never comes to visit, so I pretend that the blood on my floor is her. It does, after all, contain her DNA patterns. The blood is my light in the darkness. The only thing that makes me stop crying. But it is also a reminder of them.

"Hush, Cynthia." They whisper,"Go to bed." I obey reluctantly, and strut over to the old, torn, and weary mattress that lies in the corner of my room. It used to be a grand queen sized bed, upon which I ruled over my imaginary people. I was a queen then, until the grand attack. That's when the termites came. The wood dissapeared slowly, until I was left with a rotting, moldy old mattress. I don't mind, though. Somehow, being low protects me from them. It provides me with a mental barrier, that won't let them in. Won't Let me hear their whispers.

Then I have to wake up again, and stand up, where I am free to their attacks once more. They are like the termites, only worse. Because they won't go away. Night is like the blood on my floor. An invisible guardian, a mother. Watching over me, and holding back the tears.

Tonight, I lie down in my bed, but I don't go straight to sleep. Instead, I look up at the darkness thats always there, always has been, and always will be. Light will always be temporary, but dark is forever. The fact that you can never escape it could drive a person insane.

As I look up at the darkness that engulfs me, a tear rushes down my cheek. I close my eyes, as though that will help me to hide from the inevitable, and am lulled to sleep by the pitter patter of rain on my window.

The angels are sad today.