| Her inked fingers angle
Her voice is made of silk
And through her deep slumber
She tells me many things |
January 27, 2011
...THE DEATH PAGE...
She was an embodiment of fragility. She tried to unburden herself of the weight the coffee cup handle, because she had her fingers curled around it. The room looked black and white. A copy of Romeo and Juliet peeked out of the bin. The sun beams angled off at her stereo and landed right on her crown, forming a halo above her pretty head.
She gazed steadily at the moving traffic. On any other day, the movement of the numerous wheels combined with many other sounds would pacify her lost soul. But today it made her cringe. She pulled down the drapes and traced the embroidered pattern of a wild flower on it with her fingers. The drapes emanated warmth and she felt cocooned. She turned to a side and curled. From a distance she looked like an embryo, waiting to come alive. A trail of wetness slowly filled the room. "This is it" she thought, " now that this moment has arrived, there is no point turning back."
Gathering her strength, she got her delicate, fragile form to stand. She felt no reflex. She lingered onto the comforting numbness. She stared at the back-pack across the room. It seemed friendly and light. The kind of company she would prefer on her numb days. As she made her way to it, her shoes made a pressing sound. "They were kissing the floor good bye, for one last time" this though made her smile.
She checked herself again in the mirror. She looked flawless. "If this was going to be the last night of her life, she better look her best", she told herself, as she inhaled in the familiar smell of the hall way.
Neither she looked back nor did she stop to catch a breath. Out of habit, she dug deeper into her bag and traced the hard revolver.
"Death is messy. Death is not glorious anymore. And death means too much paperwork, nightmares, possible threats from friends and family of the dead.", his voice boomed in her head. Before it changed her mind she had to get done with this. The momentum of her step picked up. She jumped into the driving seat and turned on the ignition. She was in a hurry.
She gazed steadily at the moving traffic. On any other day, the movement of the numerous wheels combined with many other sounds would pacify her lost soul. But today it made her cringe. She pulled down the drapes and traced the embroidered pattern of a wild flower on it with her fingers. The drapes emanated warmth and she felt cocooned. She turned to a side and curled. From a distance she looked like an embryo, waiting to come alive. A trail of wetness slowly filled the room. "This is it" she thought, " now that this moment has arrived, there is no point turning back."
Gathering her strength, she got her delicate, fragile form to stand. She felt no reflex. She lingered onto the comforting numbness. She stared at the back-pack across the room. It seemed friendly and light. The kind of company she would prefer on her numb days. As she made her way to it, her shoes made a pressing sound. "They were kissing the floor good bye, for one last time" this though made her smile.
She checked herself again in the mirror. She looked flawless. "If this was going to be the last night of her life, she better look her best", she told herself, as she inhaled in the familiar smell of the hall way.
Neither she looked back nor did she stop to catch a breath. Out of habit, she dug deeper into her bag and traced the hard revolver.
"Death is messy. Death is not glorious anymore. And death means too much paperwork, nightmares, possible threats from friends and family of the dead.", his voice boomed in her head. Before it changed her mind she had to get done with this. The momentum of her step picked up. She jumped into the driving seat and turned on the ignition. She was in a hurry.
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