- her words -

Her hands fit snug between her legs, warm and fleshy. The act, however, afforded her little comfort as she sat on the edge of her seat, afraid. Afraid, she might fall off that very edge and never again be able to make her way back up.

Despite the clutter and the noise, white noise, her mind spun around various versions of that popular hit. The one she had been listening to on the radio the day before. The one that had been remixed/resung/redone so many times and by so many different artists that no one even remembered how fresh the original had once sounded or what voice had belted it out that very first time.

With the sting of a biting remark, reality caught up with her again and she felt a little dizzy. A little dry-mouthed, all at once. She felt the clutter closing in on her and it made her want to Scream. Yell. Throw things and watch them shatter just as she watched everything else shatter around her. And, at the same time, she wanted to cry. Wail like a baby, with little baby whimpers, and then be tucked under the covers and put to sleep with a soothing lullaby and a kiss on the forehead.

She swayed then, in an attempt to distract herself, or was it just habit. Back and forth, back and forth, in one place. What she needed was to be heard. Just once, she needed them all to just shut the fuck up and hear her. Hear what she had to say. And care. Give a damn, just Once.

And they almost heard her. Because she almost said it aloud. But just as the words were ready to rise up and out, she quickly whisked them down, and back inside. Afraid. Of falling. That downward spiral. And then, she heard the din give way to her thoughts, her words:

"Stop it! Stop screaming! Don't you even care that I am in the room while you behave like this... that I can see you like this... like animals! Put an end to this nonsense now! Right now. Please."

But it wasn't her. It was her thoughts, but not her tongue. Her's was stuck. Caught at the back of her throat. These words came from a mouth; thin and precise like her own, but smaller. A smaller yet stronger, version of her frail self, nineteen years younger but somehow more herself then she was today. It was the force of those words, hanging in the dry, stifling air, that pushed. And finally, she fell. Fell off that Goddamn edge.

23.08.05
3:39am