Through The Cemetery Backyards

Darkness. It’s so warm and viscous, but at the same time it makes your skin crawl from the cold and terror which it carries, which it hides under its wing. You want to stay in it forever because you feel safe, but at the same time you are afraid of what lurks under this pitch-black, thick, unbreakable veil. Afraid that something is going to attack you from the back, and you’re going to be powerless against it- just another small, weak, helpless victim. Darkness presses down on your head and your chest, slowly smashing your heart and brains, turning them into a paste. It doesn’t let you breathe properly, wrapping you in it’s overly tight embrace. It kills slowly and sweetly, stretching the pleasure if you, of course, forget to open your eyes.

But darkness is what helps you forget, or at least turn off the screams and wails of what has been clawing on your soul for many, many years. You just lay on your back, pretend you’re dead, and that all your problems are going to be solved by someone else. And this sweetly bitter sensations completely overtake your body, filling you up.

But sometimes the darkness fades, and you are forced to face life just the way it is.

Lucky or not, I don’t have that problem. In my case, the darkness never fades. No matter how many times I open my eyes, all I see is the same unbearable, crushing darkness, which I’m honestly sick of. I’ve gone through so many surgeries, I feel like I’m a robot who is getting modified from day to day. More and more new technologies, traveling from hospital to hospital, operations, scars on my skin… and the light at the end of the tunnel just doesn’t appear.

The last bits of hope that I had all those 10 years ago have completely dissolved by now, and frankly, I have no will to continue living. My innocence is gone, and I can never ever reclaim it, no matter what happens. I’m tired of going with the flow, and I know that I am never going to be able to make anything out of myself. I’m just a waste of flesh and space, a raw human material that had a potential of becoming something, but lost it all.

I do not, however, consider myself a victim. I definitely don’t want anyone to pity me, I don’t need their sorrow. I do not need their prayers either. Why does everyone I meet think it’s appropriate to tell me that they are going to pray for me? What good is it going to do? I stopped believing in God long ago- if he existed, he wouldn’t let anything like this happen. God is supposed to protect, not harm and kill.

Notes

Aaaand I'm back with a new story! Yay!
*silence accompanied by crickets*

Tell me what you think, I'd love to have some feedback)