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ELEANOR
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I'm not enough, I'm not enough, I'm not enough, was all the words that echoed off the walls. The partitions were transparent, I could view through it and see emptiness. This was how I was going to die. Trapped in a black void with the cacophony of my opinions. I was confined in the six walls of glass with nothing left to see or feel.
At first, it was the rupture of the brain. When the words increased in fervour, I was screaming to the oblivion and begging to hinder the shattering I felt. My thoughts were breaking to a million pieces and I could do nothing but watch it turn to dust. I could taste vileness on my tongue, something prodding into my body at odd intervals and leaving bruises as I felt the mind-numbing strain. I couldn't remember anything anymore.
It hurt. It hurt so much to cling onto the last fibres of self-respect and control, refusing the antidote that had been supplied to me. Something was missing and I didn't have the thoughts to figure out what it was. I was trying to grapple everything - anything even - that made me reject the neutralising passions. A part of me would never stop feeling this abandoning emotion before the missing thing. It was heavy, restricting and it was tying me down. Abandoned in my own mind.
And then, the world wasn't real anymore. It was fake, empty, gone. Dark and resting on the burnt cinders of what used to be. This cinder couldn't even ignite a spark that could renew it. I could no longer see the future. I couldn't see the missing thing anymore. Like in a weird transition into the state of psychosis, I couldn't tell the real from unreal anymore. Maybe this was a fantasy. This pain was a fantasy I must stop believing in. If only that were easy. Nothing was easy anymore. It was a surpassing task, even breathing.
'I know you're in there.'
My eyes searched for the voice in a haste. In a moment, it sparked an iota of remembrance but so swift that it was gone. In the floating void, it was a hiss. A whisper to adhere to. A rope handed down for me to escape.
'Elle, listen to me.'
I didn't know who that was. I didn't know who anyone was. I could only tell what I saw and what I felt, which had also become nothing. But the whispers of my judgements continued. It continued to tell me what I was. I'm not enough, I'm not enough, I'm not enough.
It was tearing open my mind, gashing in with its own opinions. But I wasn't denying it either. In this dead mass of whatever I was in, there was telling of time or matter. Time didn't flow in straight lines and logic was a circle. No solutions, just round and round it went.
