A Thousand Words

I just got this idea one day, and it hit so close to my heart, I knew I had to write it.

     They say a cut is worth a thousand words. I always thought it was worth more than words. That maybe, the peeling back of flesh from a wound could expose something more beneath, something that I couldn’t seem to find from the exterior. I stand at the mirror, palms resting on the sink basin, staring at the monster. All I see when I look in the glass reflection is that monster. It whispers to me, leaking words of malice through my mind. You killed her. You killed her. I can’t get away from those words, that voice, because I know it only speaks the truth. The truth was the monster. You killed her. You killed her. As time passed, day after day, I began to believe it, let my lips trace those poison words.

     “I killed her.”

     I had, this I knew. Though I had rested at her bedside, watching her waste away in a pale array of jaundiced skin, rested my fingers against her innate palm, I had killed her. It had been I who had let her grow so weak; too weak to stand, to speak, and eventually, to open her eyes. But I knew she could hear me. I would see that ever-so-faint smile flutter momentarily across her face, and I would try my best not to break down �" crying. You killed her. You killed her. That’s when I first heard the monster’s voice. That’s when I knew I was doomed to an eternity of this unbearably reckless guilt.

     Every so often, I would visit her gravestone, that voice whispering all the while: You killed her. You killed her. I would kneel in the wet grass, let my fingers trace over the engraved words in stone; her name. The familiar letters, R.I.P, and her name, and the dates. The date I had not known her, and the date that I had killed her. You killed her. You killed her. That monster, it never leaves me alone. It keeps murmuring those words; making me want to scream, scream. I stare at the monster, and the monster glares back at me with red-rimmed eyes. You killed her. You killed her. It’s sneering now, taunting me, daring me. I lift a clenched fist, throw my arm at the glass, feel it shatter beneath my blow and split open my knuckles. I can’t see the monster anymore, and for a scant moment, I think that I could be happy again. That I could forget. But the voice, the voice, it comes back. A mere whisper: You killed her. You killed her. I can’t run away, can’t hide, can’t forget. So I scream, try to drown out the coo of the monster. Its voice just rises above mine, a piercing wail. You killed her! You killed her! I sink to the ground; rest my forehead against drawn-up knees, surrender, surrender. It comes again, hushed, hushed. You killed her. You killed her. My guilt weighs heavily on my shoulders, never lifting, only adding pressure all the time, every second. You killed her. You killed her. My lips curve around those words, whispering them over and over again, a steady thrum, until there’s nothing left to live for anymore.

     “I killed her… I killed her…”

     And my words paint my arms, becoming the monster. I have become the monster, let it lace my skin and weave through my mind. The words just say the same thing, burning rotting flesh upon my skin; burning, burning. You killed her. You killed her. I don’t try to get away anymore. I just let those words caress what shell is left of me. You killed her. You killed her. This was my hell. I accepted it, embraced it.  Lived with those words, grazing ice through my soul, numbing me to everything, everyone. And always, that voice. Always reminding me. You killed her. You killed her.

Author's Note

What do you think of the idea of the monster, and how it was portrayed?