Esque
has gone on an epic journey to find herself.
It's not really prose, but it isn't poetry either, so I figured it went here.
Also, it's a tad gory, so if you're squeamish, turn back here.
Anyway, that's all of my introduction.
I am tired, and I ask myself,
What would happen if I screamed right now?
And I answer the question for myself.
It would bounce off the walls of this empty house, this empty overextended room of no real value, with no reason to be here. And I would hear a stranger screaming. And I might fall to the floor, and I would cover my ears with my hands. And I would curl up, make myself smaller than the monster I was releasing. And I would run out of air eventually. And the scream would physically stop, but inside of me, it would continue to reflect off of very wall and my glass would shatter. I would finally cry, and let the burning, salty tears stain my cheeks forever. And I would inhale and scream a second time.
The rattling inside of me leaves through the portal of my open, bloody mouth. And I reach up, try to crawl to my feet, try to return to the ledge of the cliff I have just launched myself off of. My knees give out, and I fall on my face. It stings. If it were not for all of the pain, returning, with every inhalation, I might think myself dead. Each time I breathe in, I breathe pain into every part of me. And every time I let go of the air, the pain intensifies, wanting more precious air, begging for more pain. And nothing will be able to relieve that pain.
And then I opened up my eyes to see the desolation I have just caused. I wished to leave myself, and go to the writhing body on the floor, to offer what feeble comfort I can pretend to give. But I am all alone. The hum of machines died out when I began to scream. The house was destroyed completely. Walls fell in, the ceiling cracked, paint peeled, and in the thousand years since the scream, it has not put itself back together. This house closed in on me, but all of the crashing destruction that I caused avoided me. By inches, by miles, it mattered not. Nothing could hurt the tiny figure writhing on the floor but that figure.
And finally, after a million hours of pain, the girl on the floor closes her mouth. Her feeble fingers push it gently up so her lips meet. She grasps at the carpeting, and drags herself like a living sled to the sink. She reaches up her tiny hands, barely to the ledge, and drowns her face in the water that fills her hands. And once the water has run off, she appears back to normal. A sly smile rests on her lips, and she collapses on the floor. Her head smacks against the porcelain throne on its way to the ground, and her blood spills all over the floor. Her eyes drop back to blind, but somewhere she knows that she will be back.
Three hundred days pass against the concrete, and she rises from the floor. After she pulls herself up to the sink, all of the blood on the floor has been absorbed back into her and the porcelain. And her skin has turned red. She opens her eyes, and those are red as well. She rubs them, and looks away from her reflection in the pool of blood. She knows they are white again now, and it is not knowledge she can stand to have confirmed.
She walked outside, and sees her friends. They notice her red skin. "Sunburn." She says, and bites back the infinite pain. And she smiles. And to them, she is happy and content. And she knows the ruse will last forever, because the screaming girl within her never learned to speak. She was born screaming.
Also, it's a tad gory, so if you're squeamish, turn back here.
Anyway, that's all of my introduction.
I am tired, and I ask myself,
What would happen if I screamed right now?
And I answer the question for myself.
It would bounce off the walls of this empty house, this empty overextended room of no real value, with no reason to be here. And I would hear a stranger screaming. And I might fall to the floor, and I would cover my ears with my hands. And I would curl up, make myself smaller than the monster I was releasing. And I would run out of air eventually. And the scream would physically stop, but inside of me, it would continue to reflect off of very wall and my glass would shatter. I would finally cry, and let the burning, salty tears stain my cheeks forever. And I would inhale and scream a second time.
The rattling inside of me leaves through the portal of my open, bloody mouth. And I reach up, try to crawl to my feet, try to return to the ledge of the cliff I have just launched myself off of. My knees give out, and I fall on my face. It stings. If it were not for all of the pain, returning, with every inhalation, I might think myself dead. Each time I breathe in, I breathe pain into every part of me. And every time I let go of the air, the pain intensifies, wanting more precious air, begging for more pain. And nothing will be able to relieve that pain.
And then I opened up my eyes to see the desolation I have just caused. I wished to leave myself, and go to the writhing body on the floor, to offer what feeble comfort I can pretend to give. But I am all alone. The hum of machines died out when I began to scream. The house was destroyed completely. Walls fell in, the ceiling cracked, paint peeled, and in the thousand years since the scream, it has not put itself back together. This house closed in on me, but all of the crashing destruction that I caused avoided me. By inches, by miles, it mattered not. Nothing could hurt the tiny figure writhing on the floor but that figure.
And finally, after a million hours of pain, the girl on the floor closes her mouth. Her feeble fingers push it gently up so her lips meet. She grasps at the carpeting, and drags herself like a living sled to the sink. She reaches up her tiny hands, barely to the ledge, and drowns her face in the water that fills her hands. And once the water has run off, she appears back to normal. A sly smile rests on her lips, and she collapses on the floor. Her head smacks against the porcelain throne on its way to the ground, and her blood spills all over the floor. Her eyes drop back to blind, but somewhere she knows that she will be back.
Three hundred days pass against the concrete, and she rises from the floor. After she pulls herself up to the sink, all of the blood on the floor has been absorbed back into her and the porcelain. And her skin has turned red. She opens her eyes, and those are red as well. She rubs them, and looks away from her reflection in the pool of blood. She knows they are white again now, and it is not knowledge she can stand to have confirmed.
She walked outside, and sees her friends. They notice her red skin. "Sunburn." She says, and bites back the infinite pain. And she smiles. And to them, she is happy and content. And she knows the ruse will last forever, because the screaming girl within her never learned to speak. She was born screaming.