A story about this enthusiastic yet somewhat mischievous girl and her newfound crush. Their meeting could only have been fate because they were tailor-made for each other. They didn't realise when, but them playing around changed to a bond that seem...
Seemingly dissatisfied, perhaps of my apathetic demeanour, which I
Held. I'm beyond that point.
Conner and I gawked at each other in a silenced room. A torturing phase, broken by me turning away. Moments later he vanished, and I slumbered back into my thoughts.
I kept imagining the same thing over again, a paradise being taken apart at its will. The organisation of an entire kingdom being ripped apart piece by piece.
What is this place you ask?
It's my mind. It's my entire conscience being torn out of place, and being tortured until it bleeds out and gives up. Only here, I can't give up; I'm not sure if I'm alive or dead, and I feel like I've been here for years. It's probably been a few weeks since I've seen any natural light and I'm starting to actually want to go outside. Let's just say that's something that doesn't happen often. I can't imagine what would happen if someone were to shine a light in my eyes. Maybe it would be the only push I need. But this is purgatory. There is nothing here except me- the victim. And my brain- the murderer. The torturer. The sinner. Death. That's all this is. That's all I need. I feel like there is a hole in my chest holding me back from achieving my true goal- to not be alone.
..
Even after growing out of adolescence and into mortgage-paying adulthood, I hated to go to sleep.
It wasn't that I didn't enjoy sleeping. On Sundays, I liked to lie in until mid-morning when my housemate would begin to do the dishes intentionally too loud and the guilt at my irresponsibility would bring me to a groggy wakefulness. No, I enjoyed sleep, but I resisted transition into sleep until as late as possible, procrastinating the inevitable until exhaustion or panic at the prospect of waking up exhausted in just a few hours forced me to bed, where I would often toss and turn for thirty minutes or more.
I was born asleep. This upset the doctor that delivered me so much that he smacked the living daylights into me. Perhaps I was merely unconscious because of the drugs he gave my mother an hour before delivery of a new sort of human. Ever since I've been wishing to slide back into that languorous state of nothingness; the black, empty backstage before the show. Before the time of feelings, disappointments and judgements, when nothing had names. I yearn for that dark silence inside the bud of life, everything unknown. In a single moment of REM sleep lies an alternate reality, a world of respite, wrapped in the warmth of a blanket: bobbing in the Caribbean Sea like a jellyfish or walking in amber light with my mother as the leaves rustle and glide to the ground. Anything is possible in a dream. But for me, sleep is not an option and my "dreams" are waking fantasies. I've never slept peacefully again since that first minute on Earth.
