Dear Sores,

for the millionth time in the past couple of weeks, I wish I could stop scratching. The scabs are yet tender, and I can’t seem to leave them alone. What lies beneath their fragility is much more vivid than what I have to face now… and I can’t really bring myself to accept the fact that soon, they will dry and eventually scar.
There is not a damn thing I can do about it.
A part of me appreciates the faint stabs of pain you cause. Even when my eyes roam elsewhere, I know you are still with me. It is a somewhat comforting reminder of the depth of my feelings. After all, I found I am still human. For that, I am grateful.

Nevertheless I would ask of you to help me still my hands by muting your sometimes fierce and fiery tongues – because we both know, it will be for the better… in the end. You were never meant to stay.
Let’s both be brave and get this over with. I know you can do it.
And so can I.

Sincerely,
the Recovering

The Horse’s Head

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He was unmoved by the fact, that he had instantly smelled the gun on Frank, who had picked him up to “go, see the man” a few minutes ago. The look in Frank’s eyes, as they casually exchanged pleasantries, screamed murder. Frank had never been much of a poker player, nor would he ever be – the inability to hide emotions would not get Frank far in this business.
It did not matter. For once, they would not be able to use his family as leverage. His wife and children were safely out of the picture, he had seen to that.
As he entered the room, his eyes fell on the polished mahogany desk and those manicured hands, tapping the smooth surface. Pavolini fixed him with his grey, concrete stare.
“Sam. Please, have a seat.”

This time, there would be no mercy.
This time, there would be blood.

(147 words)

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Written for VisDare28: Obscured – 150 words or less. Grab a pen and join the fun!
photo credits: observatory.designobserver.com

 

Paradox

Have you ever been absent?
Not there… unfamiliar with yourself?
Have you ever looked at yourself and thought, “Who is this person that is supposed to be me?”

I used to be good at being me.
Now, I am beginning to think I lost touch.

During the week I find myself moaning, barely able to stand the weight of long work hours and appointments, longing for the weekend and some time off… and once the weekend is here, I wish to go back to work because I don’t know what to do with myself.
It is absolutely disgusting.
The nagging question is: When did this happen?

I used to be able to entertain myself.
I used to be able to just read, write… or enjoy nature. Just sitting in the grass for a while was enough – fulfilling.
Now, I look at this shell (that is supposed to be me) in the few hours of time that I have to myself on weekends and it seems like I am just
pacing…
Pacing…
PACING…
on the inside – because I feel the need to go back to being under pressure. Minutes keep dragging on, feel endless. Even while writing this, I keep thinking of ways to pass the time until it’s Monday again and I can go back to work – and hating my job. It feels like a Love/Hate -Relationship. Once I’m there, I can’t wait for it to be Friday again – to be rid of demands and ‘have-to’s’… and on the weekends, I can’t wait to get back to the stressful environment I loathe.

Has Society finally succeeded to assimilate me? Has it made me one of their mindless robots?

Perhaps not quite – or I wouldn’t be writing this.
Perhaps this is my true Self’s Last Stand.

It is a frightening feeling to discover you lost yourself.
I keep wondering when that little person inside me (the one who stands for my individuality) shut the door and resigned. I keep wondering when exactly the daily grind got the best of me… drowned me out, without me even noticing.
Frightening.
Utterly frightening.

Can you be addicted to stress?
And even more importantly, how long can you keep it up until your body and mind surrender?

I am frightened by the lack of me within me.
I will heed this warning and work from here… hoping to find my way back.

Good Luck find me… I need it.

after the storm

where do i begin?

she sat by the window. the steady drizzle had turned into full-out rain a while ago. when… she did not remember.
she watched the day going to sleep. twilight… such a peaceful thing.
the cigarette she had lit had died after a drag or two. it didn’t matter. it had just been a diversion anyways.

he had left her again after things went bad.
with the tip of her tongue, she gently touched her split lip, wincing at the stab of pain it caused her. her cheek, still stinging faintly, would show color tomorrow. a light purple perhaps; it would match the color of her eye’s contour.
her thoughts provoked a bitter smile. at least he made her life colorful.
absurd.

her eyes lingered on her beloved garden outside, slowly growing darker. her refuge; she could not count the hours she had spent looking at it from this exact same spot, nor could she recall all the times she had spent in pain caused by his hands. wickedly familiar.
it seemed like a lifetime.

where do i begin?

undoubtedly he would return in a little while. return; bearing some petty gift to make up for his actions. once, she had believed his pained expression and pathetic attempts. once, she had believed he would stop.
once… she had been naive and loving.

she had stopped believing years ago.

she exhaled, deeply, forcefully; causing the window’s glass to fog up. lifting her slightly trembling fingers, she drew the shape of a crooked heart onto the smooth, cold surface.
she would leave it behind… the small, disgusting part of herself that still loved him. she had no more use for it.

with a final sigh she stood, grabbed her car keys from the low coffee table and moved to wrestle the big suitcase she had packed in a frenzy out the door. if its contents made sense, she would find out later. for now, it didn’t matter.
as the front door closed behind her and the fresh, rich scent of the evening’s rain filled her nostrils, she made herself one promise. one promise she intended to keep.

here.
here and now is where i begin.

she never looked back.

run.

feet pound on pavement.
his eyes, wide with fear; haunted.

do not look back!

his breath comes in gasps as he rounds yet another corner; as fast as he dares.
he can still hear him. him… The One Who Lurks Behind.
his trembling legs scream for a break, for rest, for relief.

not far now… run! RUN!

the freezing night air makes it hard to breathe; he sucks in breath after breath, feeling the icy knives dig deep into his straining lungs. sweat stings in his eyes, makes it hard to stay focused on the soft, warm lights in the distance.
terror.
sheer terror resides.
terror keeps his body functioning, keeps him moving; ignoring the exhaustion gnawing at his bones, his mind, his heart. the will to survive is all-consuming. stupendous.

please, don’t let me falter… please…

a loud crack echoes through the night; the source not far behind, bouncing off the narrow alley’s grimy brick walls. he stumbles, blinking.
his legs no longer able to bear his weight, give out from underneath him. he sags to his knees, gasping.

what happened? i don’t unde……

there.
a dark red spot appears on the front of his shirt. small, wet… slowly extending.

no…

heavy footsteps behind him.
a low, smooth chuckle.

and then… blackness.

flight

snowflakes drifted from the sky.
it was too early for such cold weather, yet it was there. snow. unmistakably.
his breath steaming in the cold night air, he drew his jacket closer, gathering what little warmth it would give him.
everything seemed so… quiet. muffled. his footsteps, crunching, crushing the white crystals on former dark gray pavement.

am i the only one here?

alien. so alien. in just a few hours, the world had transformed.
transformed into an uninhabitable environment… beautiful and deadly.
a butterfly, halfway covered by the drifting flakes, lay quivering on the sidewalk. he stared at the fragile body, transfixed, considered picking it up, but before being able to even finish his thought, the butterfly shuddered – one last time – and its wings lost color forever.
he resisted the urge to cringe and hurry away; instead made himself look a moment longer at the motionless form at his feet… once, so perfectly vivid; gorgeous.

all things must die. is that what this means? all things must die?

his gaze lifted to the wild and furious tumble above, and before his heart could adopt the cold that was spreading through his body, he hurried away, determined to find artificial warmth and comfort.
all he left behind were his footprints, slowly filling, fading from sight.