Starting At The End

I want to feel that sense of calm. The kind that feels like gentle waves rushing over your feet, when you're only slightly enveloped by the waters; the kind that feels like a soft, subtle breeze - barely noticeable but refreshing all the same; the kind that feels like slipping under a newly replaced sheet on your bed on a warm day - encasing you in its' coolness. I want - need - that feeling of being okay; of being safe; of being happy. Or is that too much to ask?
Apparently so, as instead, I'm met with a sensation of burning - fire. Yet, at the same time I'm littered in goosebumps. All the way from my shoulders to my ankles, my hairs are reaching out into the surrounding air - tugging for the freedom I'm forbidden from.

There's this agonising pounding coming from within me. It's not just in my chest. It's in my head, my neck, my stomach, my back - everywhere. It's at a constant rate of getting faster and harsher. It's something desperate for escape, but incapable of retrieving such a luxury. It just hurts: all over. Accompanying the pain is a weakness that has overtaken me - my weakness. Although I've never experienced the feeling of strength, I'm still highly aware of my frailty. My legs are especially succumbed to this. They tremble furiously, but not with fear, as I'm not afraid; not with anxiety as I'm not nervous; not with anger as I'm not mad. So what? Why am I so weak, from my head to my toes, that I feel my knees are about to buckle beneath me, incapable of holding me up much longer.
I had wondered all of this whilst sat on the floor of my bathroom, back against the door, after the events of my legs finally giving up and leaving me to the ground. My previous issues have only increase in severity now that I've been on the floor, finally having accomplished my goal - one that most would find horrific.
The causing source of my current problem has been somewhat discarded of - a slight few inches from my left hand, of which is weighted to the ground. I don't move it. I can't. I wouldn't be able to, even if I put all of my remaining effort into it. There's no energy flowing through it any longer - no blood either. No, that's all around it; on it; below it. I'd like to believe there's some left within, but those chances feel thin.

My throat is trapped in agony; a strangling lump of silenced sobs encloses my airway. I would let them out but this is all a secret I've promised to keep. You know, I've been praised on my loyalty many a time. Some would say it's my strongest trait - the only strong thing about me, as shown, apparently. Thus I stay inaudible - through words and through sounds. This termination of my vocals, however, did not hinder the flooding of my eyes. Over either edge poured masses upon masses of this salty solvent, brokenly cascading by way of my cheeks and neck. The irritation caused has me tempted to wipe them away but again appears the factor of my limbs being of disrepair. It's unfortunate, really: the itch of wanting dryer skin but the privilege of gaining such is now so far out it'll never be in reaching distance again.

It's been too long for me now. I just want to reach that last word, of that last sentence, of that last chapter. The chapter isn't the longest in the book, but it certainly isn't the shortest. It doesn't drag, as such, it's merely a long build up. It takes you time to reach that final syllable - not much time, but it feels like too long. But maybe that's just due to the atmosphere. The eagerness to finish it, likely not to return. You don't want to return. Not because the book was bad, rather because the story drew out so much emotion on the first round, that it would have an inadequate effect with a second. So once you do finish fixing the letters together on the last few words to finish the tale, you prepare to close it and treasure that feeling from the first attempt.
In this story (my story), it's impossible to re-read, even if you had the wish to do so. This book has a strong ending and no second beginning. There's no sequel. It's a single sellout - one copy.
This ending is one you sometimes expected, mostly hoped not for, but always saw as inevitable.

So here you are; here I am. Both the reader as well as the writer. There's so few lines left to go. There's a small climax, a positive one, one you desire: the sound of footsteps. They're not rough on the stairs but loud enough to know they're being taken every two. But that's not for speed to get to me. It's just his natural habit. He's someone I'll miss: my brother.
He has a head of mopped curls - dark in their chocolate colour. They're the kind of curls that you'd want to tangle your fingers into as he reads your favourite book to you. You'd look up at him whilst you lay rested on his chest with him laid on his back on the grass, pronouncing each word the exact way he knows you love. He pays attention to the details, especially in those he treasures.
I've always admired his eyes. They're a stand-out feature. They display so much life, so effortlessly. His pupils are encapsulated by forest green specks, mixed within a wash of aquatic, glistening blue. The minuscule details amongst the sea appear like a constellation, one of which you wouldn't dare to tear your gaze from, in fear of missing the exact moment light is shone upon them and it brings out the most breathtaking sparkle. To those who experience it, it's magical. To those who don't, they're left unknowingly disappointed - missing out. It's a truly magnificent thing, expressed from a truly beautiful soul. He's filled to the brim with kindness and charisma.
You'd be lucky to know him; lucky to have been allowed access to his heart and his vulnerability - a rather delicate specialty. If you see this, and he hold you close, appreciate him - for me, please.

That knock on the door, you might have predicted would happen, never came. The wood against my spine remained untouched from the other side.
The stillness is heart wrenching.
Within this blank space in time, I finally closed my eyes, letting the remainder of my tears flow involuntarily. I often imagined myself pleading for the chance to reopen my sealed lids, but I suppose I had assumed wrongly. The shadowless darkness that overtook my sight had a sense of tranquility to it. Like, that sense of calm I've always wanted.