Anticlimactic

"THERE ARE NO MIRACLES"

"THERE ARE NO MIRACLES"

I.

It's a Saturday morning and I've got a bitter taste inside my mouth. My hands shake and my heart trembles to an erratic beat as I reach for the cereal box; the food misses the bowl that is sat on the edge of the table and spills out across the grimy tiled floor. I stare down at the mess for seven seconds too long, feeling nothing, and I see my grandfather's name spelt out before me through the crumbs and dirt. I wait to hear the sound of his voice that echoes mercilessly through my ringing ears when I am reminded of him, but I don't; so I clasp the pendant of my necklace in my fingers, leave the mess as is, and retreat to my bedroom before giving up my bones to silence. Soon enough, he is with me again.

II.

I breathe,

I sleep,

I pray;

as if I have a choice.

I find scratches on my bare arms and listen to the sound that the blades of the ceiling fan make when they slice through the air, like the sound of a knife just before chopping up a piece of meat. I set my own heart on fire by burning of my thoughts, and the pendant of my necklace raises and falls with the subtle rhythm of my heart, like the beating of a hollow drum. Shame crawls up my neck like a third hand as I smother the side of my face in a pillow, staring blankly out the window and taking in the sun's fine rays as they dance across the meek surface of the beaten and battered Earth. Life is a test.

III.

I stay up until the early hour of three o'clock every night with my arms raised high above my head and my hands cupped to capture the starlight, and I wonder what my grandfather would have to say to me if he saw me then; my feet bare as I slowly walk across the dewy surface of the grass, and my heart naked and pounding, ready to be snatched away from me, as I had taken so long to demolish the walls around it. The horizon is bleak and dim as I near it, and my mind rushes with thoughts, wondering if this is it; if this is all that it's made up to be. I let my hands fall to my sides and crumple them up into fists, and I walk back inside with a heavy heart and realize that yes, this is the human condition.

IV.

The next morning I wake up on the floor and I let out a disappointed sigh knowing that I had let the darkness take me. My legs ache as I search with frantic hands for the pendant of my necklace, and I think of my grandfather's promises and I try to remember what it is that I have lost but all I know is that it is gone, and life doesn't seem to bring back what once was or what once could've been. I try to sit up but my body is too twisted in a way that my weary mind cannot comprehend, and I suddenly wish that I was not in an empty house. Sirens go off somewhere in the distance and I want to rush up to the window and scream; In here, in here. I have finally fallen.

V.

Life should have been better. I take in the empty rooms and the unmade beds in stilled silence; particles of dust swim through the air as a hazy glow filters through the window from the late afternoon sun. I back away from the house with a swollen heart and I hear my grandfather's words but in my own voice - there are no miracles in this life; it should have been more beautiful than this.