I Express Myself Through Writing
The Night
She was sleeping when it came.
She did not have the strength to fight it.
Nor the desire.
Some might have thought she seemed ready for it. Like she had been waiting for a very very long time.
The house had been infested for a prolonged period already. Slugs would seep from the cracks in the wall at night, spiders would scuttle across the floors and walls. Moths darted desperately around the too bright lights.
So she had had an idea that this moment was on its way. She was ready.
She had been ready all her life.
It began with a tightening around her throat, she could feel her heart race faster as her lungs fought for breath. Her veins pulsed in her purple face. Her head got lighter. But the grip deliberately loosened just before she lost consciousness.
A blow came down hard on her face, shattering her cheek bone and bloodying her nose. That was the moment she knew she must finally be mad, as the only thought that crept into her twisted mind, was how she had never much liked her face. So she lifted her head and bloody nose to embrace each satisfying smash.
With a heavy throbbing head she felt uneven, so when the mirror joined in with the dark arts and shattered and sprayed its tiny piercing shards all over her skin, marking her pale canvas with bloody drips of deep red, she felt a relief deep within her bones. And as the ceiling fell and broke her arm and both her legs but spared her skull and brain. She thought how she nearly felt just right after all.
Finally mind and body were at one.
So she closed her eyes and slept deep for the first time since the beginning.
Until she woke in her bed with her house and body showing no sign of the night.
She heard a scream as her mind fell to pieces.
No one else heard it.
So she got up and showered and took her children to school and set off to work.
And no one ever asked her of the night.
She was sleeping when it came.
She did not have the strength to fight it.
Nor the desire.
Some might have thought she seemed ready for it. Like she had been waiting for a very very long time.
The house had been infested for a prolonged period already. Slugs would seep from the cracks in the wall at night, spiders would scuttle across the floors and walls. Moths darted desperately around the too bright lights.
So she had had an idea that this moment was on its way. She was ready.
She had been ready all her life.
It began with a tightening around her throat, she could feel her heart race faster as her lungs fought for breath. Her veins pulsed in her purple face. Her head got lighter. But the grip deliberately loosened just before she lost consciousness.
A blow came down hard on her face, shattering her cheek bone and bloodying her nose. That was the moment she knew she must finally be mad, as the only thought that crept into her twisted mind, was how she had never much liked her face. So she lifted her head and bloody nose to embrace each satisfying smash.
With a heavy throbbing head she felt uneven, so when the mirror joined in with the dark arts and shattered and sprayed its tiny piercing shards all over her skin, marking her pale canvas with bloody drips of deep red, she felt a relief deep within her bones. And as the ceiling fell and broke her arm and both her legs but spared her skull and brain. She thought how she nearly felt just right after all.
Finally mind and body were at one.
So she closed her eyes and slept deep for the first time since the beginning.
Until she woke in her bed with her house and body showing no sign of the night.
She heard a scream as her mind fell to pieces.
No one else heard it.
So she got up and showered and took her children to school and set off to work.
And no one ever asked her of the night.
