Jonah ON HOLD

5.predator

        “Murderer, Jonah.  You murdered me.”

        I felt my skin crawl at the sound of my sister’s broken voice, falling at certain intervals and sometimes missing syllables.  “No.  No, Jack!    I didn’t — I didn’t mean to!  I —“

        “I’m dead, Jonah!  Dead!” she screeched, her face contorting as tears fell from her watery eyes.  Tears of pain, of loss, of rage.

        Her cheeks cracked open, the skin splitting sickeningly as she balled up her fists, and blood began to mix with her tears, falling down her face and chin in weaving streams.  She opened her mouth to say something but choked on her own words, as if someone had taken her neck in their hands, sealing off her oxygen supply.

        I felt tears in my eyes, building up and trying to spill over.  I thought that this was over, that I’d avenged her by removing myself, that I’d be dead and there would be no more guilt, no more memories.

        I thought I was gone.

        My eyes blinked open, and water covered my cheeks, glistening with the sunlight shining through my uncovered window.

        I had only slept.

        I raised my hand to my cheeks and wiped away the tears, looking around for any evidence of my suicide attempt.  My eyes quickly caught sight of the empty pill bottle on the floor, the lid popped off next to it.  The little orange home was vacant of any tenants.

        And yet, I was still alive.

        Sudden anger erupted within me, and I clenched my fists, pulling myself up off of the floor shakily.

        Had this curse been what kept me alive?  Was I still alive because my life was not mine, but the curse’s?  The beast’s?

        A profane word slipped past my lips, and guilt dissolved into frustration.  I hated myself, and I couldn’t even kill myself to get rid of all of the — the hate!

        How do you live in such close proximity to something you despise with all that you are?

        I needed coffee.

        Shaking my head in an attempt to rid my thoughts of self-hatred, just for a moment, I grabbed my jacket off of the floor and slipped it on.  My hand reached up to run itself through my brown hair, and I felt for my keys in my pocket.  There was a coffee shop a little ways up the road; it wouldn’t be too far a walk, even in the cold weather.  I opened the apartment door and took the stairs down, cigarette smoke flooding the halls in hues of grey and brown.

        The scent was faint — the person had maybe passed through about an hour ago — but it was still there.  The only positive to this thing was being able to sense so much — I didn’t even need my glasses anymore — but the positives shied in comparison to the negatives.