Collarbones

8 - Soul

 If it was possible to hold my soul in my hands, I would do so. I think I would like to know what this seemingly mystical part of my body appears to be. Is it an interpretation of myself in the purest sense? Is it as white as freshly fallen snow? Or is it black like charcoal smeared across paper? Or is it a mixture of both, gray like ashes that have fallen from the tip of a cigarette and were extinguished by a breeze?

I do not know what to think of my soul, but I often times wish that I could tear it from my body and light it on fire.

I have never been able to connect it to anything besides religion. As much as I wish I knew for sure whether or not Heaven and Hell actually exist, I cannot. I cannot help but feel torn from that part of me.

I know I am disconnected.

But I am to the point where I do not care to find the outlet that the cord that dangles from me belongs to. Maybe if I were to find it I would not have this burning desire to burn the part of me that I have lost faith in.

My hands are fumbling in the darkness.

I hope to find a white light shining somewhere in the distance.

But if my soul is no longer a part of me, how can I even possibly begin to think that someone will be coming for me?

How can I waste the few precious minutes I have waiting for something I know is not coming?

And as my hand makes it way to my mouth, calloused knuckles brushing across the swollen cheeks of someone who has been consistently shoving her finger down her throat in order to feel something other than the mental pain that scrapes and burns against her insides, I find my eyes falling closed. The objects in my hand fall into my mouth, one after another and I’m chewing, swallowing, swishing them about as I blindly reach for the bottle again. I knock the bottle onto the counter, hear it fall as it rolls across and then drops to the floor.

I hear the plastic crack somewhere around my feet.

The doorknob jiggles from across the room, the sound of my name being called following shortly after.

I do not bother to answer.

I take the last few that rest in my hand, each of them about the size of my pinky nail before I toss them into my mouth.

I cling to the bathroom counter.

Wonder how long it will take.

Wonder if it’ll feel like the hours spent before a concert, excitement, exhilaration, and everything in between coursing through my veins.

I wonder if it’ll feel like the minute hand of a clock during class, where every five minutes feels like twenty.

I wonder if I’ll feel anything as I go down, drowning in the pain that has brought me to this point.

I wonder

I wonder

I wonder

I am met once again with the icy sting of the numbness as it rains down upon me, sliding over my skin and straight through to my bones.

And though my life hangs only by a single string that those in charge of life are heading at with a pair of rusted scissors in a dark cavern somewhere only my mind can imagine, I feel the blood pulsating through my veins. I hear my name, crystal clear, “Ainsley,” as the doorknob shakes harder and the fists begin to pound. And as I see the scissors drawing nearer to the string, I hear their voices cackling somewhere in my mind.

Because though my eyes are not open, I can see myself standing right before me. She is the mirrored image of me, the one that I try not to look at unless I am examining my progress. I can see me: the smooth pale skin, the tangled brown hair, the swollen cheeks and calloused knuckles. I can smell the vomit across the small distance, see the bags beneath the eyes, and hear her sniffle before she lets out a cough that rattles my bones. Though she looks as if she’s been down the fiery walkway of Hell, I see exactly what I want to see.

Her hipbones jut from her side, perfectly sharp.

There’s more than a river’s width between her legs, but miles upon miles that make her legs appear to be the size of needles.

And there, forming divots and ruts along her shoulders, are her collarbones. They’re hard, sharp, and as soon as she turns her head to look at something behind her, I see the definition of her neck, pieces popping, showing the lack of fat.

She’s skinny.

She turns away from me, her hair falling behind over her shoulders as she walks naked towards the sudden light that has appeared. She never once looks back, but continues forward.

I want to call her name, but I feel myself being strangled.

Hands wrap around my neck.

Fingers pry my mouth open.

And as something wet hits my cheek, I feel my eyes fly open of their own accord.

I smile as I look up past the face that’s streaming with tears above me.

There is the light, burning brighter than I’ve ever seen it.

Though my eyes remain open for only a few seconds, I want the time to tell them that I’ll be fine.

I need to go.

Because I’ve done it.

There is nothing left to live for.

I am perfect.

and before the final curtain falls, a beautiful black silk that shimmers once more in the light,

I

feel

alive.