Past in Pages

She can sit in silence, in a wordless void, but her mind is on the tracks again and there is no stopping it...The anger and malice of her unhindered emotions shadowed her sanity...

 

The rain can make her feel hollow and serine, if only for a moment. She can sit in silence, in a wordless void, but her mind is on the tracks again and there is no stopping it. Under the sheets she is sweltering; the unfavorable temperature of her skin drives her to the doors of the balcony. The drip of the summer rain on her palms outstretched feeds a starving instinct. The wind chimes rattle with an urgent melody; notes in shattered disarray. She glances back at the mangled ruins of a book in her empty room; the pages shredded, the binding dismembered hopelessly.

 

It was the only way. The only way to make certain that the characters would never find her; that her characters would never find her. Separate the words, the pages, tear apart the binding of the plot. Rip apart the past and the history of a character's life so that it is no more.

 

The anger and malice of her unhindered emotions shadowed her sanity. It poured out in scalding, self loathing words and insults followed by unsympathetic blows. Her pride is battered and bruised, but the pain is dead.

  

Her body was immobile, but she was raging, tearing around the room. She was cracking and shattering windows with the chairs. She was shredding her favorite books.

 

She remembers; somewhere someone once said that you can find refuge in the pages you write, the character’s you create. There is no refuge for a monster. Her characters she claims as fiction haunt her with their reality. Her lies about conjuring up her painful stories from the "fiction maker's eye" echo in her unconscious. Everything she put on the medium of paper was a wish to remove it from her past. She had never told the truth, but she thought perhaps if she wrote it, it would dissipate like smoke. Only, in the form of books and novels, her past latched on with painful force and refused to let go. In atempt to rid her shoulders of a heavy past, she wrote it. In atempt to destroy the bitter taste of remaining and now published grief, she tore it apart.

 

She stands on the balcony, still and unmoving, crying. She was standing still, but she was upturning the couch. She was tearing the picture frames from their hooks and smashing them against the wall. Watch it shatter. Watch something disappear. Give the illusion of justified suffering. The flass of the picture frames shatters, but the pieces are still existant. Whole or in fractions, it will always be glass just as on paper or in her mind, her past will always be hers.

 

She’s been locked in this room for a minute. She’s been locked in this room for a week. There is no refugee for her asylum seeking sanity.

 

She is shredding her books, ripping the lives of beloved characters into nothing. They are nothing. Their lives are being scattered into pieces, eaten by the dust, separated by this monster. She can only now find refuge in new pages. The others are frayed, ripped by this monster she calls herself and her past.

Author's Note

The begining of a story? Who knows.

Reviews

[Sseoni]

Wow! What an amazing story! It was beautifully written, wonderfully detailed, and greatly descriptive! It was very passionate, and full of emotion! It was like you put your heart and soul into your story! I didn't like it- I loved it! Fantastic story! Keep up the good work! :D