She is self-contained. Nothing can get in or out without her acquiesce. Her smile can be vibrant when she allows it; and the light that glimmers in her eyes is as sporadic as a blue moon, but no less luminescent. There are moments when a flicker of innocence passes by, during a joke she hasn’t heard before, or a new song whose lyrics add words to the emotions she won’t display.
She is a bird forever in flight. An unsolvable algorithm.
If she ever loved you, you would never know.
Her mind is unstill. There are constant thoughts and memories, a microscopic film reel in the ethers of her brain that tick and flash across behind the thin shell of her eye lids. The problem with fearing no one is that it leaves only yourself. And she became, in every sense of the phrase, her own worst enemy.
We can’t all be perfect.
The smoke curls of her cigarette danced against the phasing lights of her flat screen. Ghostly figures in an intimate Tango against the cold winter’s night. The lyrics of the song playing on the radio sends shivers down her spine and culminate up to her middle finger, now tapping the neck of the bottle wedged between her thighs. It was her choice of poison for the night.
She kept the lights off, but all the noise and darkness in the world couldn’t shut off her mind. The bottle of whiskey helped the most; it dulled the noise to a steady mumbling and the pictures would fuzz into a blur, and for a while the images dulled enough for her to fall asleep. However, this process wasn’t quick and tonight, like the many previous ones before this, she needed a faster remedy.
He has been her newest drug; the fastest cure she has. A human soporific that works in half the time, is guaranteed to work and doesn’t taste bad when going down. And because he was just as addicted to her as she was to him, he was available whenever she needed him.
It was difficult and confusing and beautifully tragic, depending whose eyes you were looking through. To possess the love of a good man is rare; and still, the one thing he would not physically provide was the medicine she needed to feel better. Not all the time, but most of the time. It was as necessary as eating candy; not always the best thing for you, but still part of your daily food group. Without it, there was nothing to take away the images and voices. And since he would not, she found someone who would.
It takes a certain amount of sacrifice to do this, she sometimes thought. Hurting the man I love, my family, and friends who will disappear out of my life purely because they don’t understand or don’t accept this. Hurting him, the one who bears the brunt of my disregarded passions, frustrations, and love—so that I can sleep another night and survive another day.
And sometimes the guilt crept up and grabbed her wrist, shaking her into a momentary station of reality. But these epiphanies are short-lived; the hunger and need drives over all guilt and selfishness and it stops for no one. She has stolen trust, vomited stories, starved reproach all for the sake of the sweat on his brow.
The buzzer rings, and before answering the intercom, she smoothed the wrinkles on the duvet laid across her bed.
If there is no rest for the wicked, then I might as well keep myself busy…