I knew then that it would end, that that was it; the last one I’d ever see. There was no cause for celebration, only mourning for who I was right then, for I’d not be there for much longer. I was on this world, but not of it; and soon not even that.
I’d realized that my demise was imminent and I’d accepted it. No more self-deception.
“My playground,” I’d once say. A place to let loose, be free and play. A place where I’d go to see the colors extinct from my own life, to cry away the clouds and just spill my heart and soul.
A place of ruin and decay.
The truth is you’re alone; you’re up there standing all alone. There’s no one there with you, no one to hold your hand. There is no comforting companion, it’s just you on that ledge, you and everything that brought you there: your regrets, your wrongdoings, your hopes and dreams, everything you’d hoped your life would be, the picture of who you dreamed of being, the disappointments of everyday life, the let-downs from everyone around you, “you wouldn’t be there to help me,” “you’re selfish,” “you’re a disappointment,” “you can’t do anything,” “you don’t care at all,” “you’re so full of yourself.” It’s all right there with you. A thousand voices, screaming at you over the noise of all the times you’ve ever thought about killing yourself and how you smiled beneath the tears just feeling so happy about the thought of dying and all the voices stopping and the silence and the nothingness, just the nothingness, complete darkness, an end once and for all. You’re standing there alone, as broken as you’ve ever been, in equal parts sad and angry, shouting at the sky and covering your ears. Death can come no sooner. Sweet death.
There’s always something, something for the monster in the back of my mind to feed on. There’s always something there, keeping him from starving to death, even in the brightest of days, there’s always something, hiding behind the sunlight. Come darkness, it’s all that I can see. He rears his ugly head and sinks his claws deep into my brain, throwing it on its knees and shattering it into a million pieces.
I can hear him roaring relentlessly in the back of my mind, lurking; waiting.
Here I am again, in that special place I promised myself I’d never return to. I came back, stared for a while at the once orange walls that are now peeling off to reveal a dark grey, took off my shoes and headed for the middle of the room. I blew the dust off the only chair in an otherwise empty room and sat down. My torture chair. Now I struggle and I wait.
I came here to die a little more, to have pieces of myself ripped off and left hanging on the walls, next to the pieces from the last time I was here. I came here unwillingly and I hope to survive this room once more.
Here I am again, in that special place…
There’s a bookshelf inside of me, kept empty for books that only you could write before you gave up writing for me.
I have this little egg that I take with me wherever I go; it’s pretty and shiny and I take good care of it. I’ve grown quite fond of it and I like looking after it, it gives me purpose. Today, though, while wiping it clean, I noticed a little crack in its shell.
I felt my heart begin to shatter.