The Vultures
The vultures circle me overhead, their sharp voices like shattered promises of hope buried somewhere within stark, screeching death- calls.
They glare at me accusingly. The blame belongs to me. I am sorry.
I am not perfect. I tried for a little while, but perfection was never meant for me.
My flesh is ruined overtime, the bleak sun fading it away as though it never existed, like a hideous parody of a once priceless painting. My colours bleed. My glow diminishes. Until I am of no value at all.
Their eyes say they want to feast on me, but until then, they watch as my skin wilts and flakes and floats away on the breeze, dirt- crusted flower petals. Taking flight.
Those death voices start up again, amplified songs of pain and rage. A baby crying, a woman screaming, an animal's dying wail. They almost sound regrettful.
They need to do it. I understand. It is their purpose, just as I have found mine.
My purpose is to die. Then maybe I will finally be free to become the nothing I want to be.
I am discarded trash, a hand-me-down soul with no use anymore. I'll make the problem disappear. No more patching up holes or mending loose stitches. The only way I can fix this is to end things permanently.
My bleached bones are useless. Scraps. My brain is malfunctioning. This is what happens when everybody stops listening. I scream for them to hear me again. But they never do. All is silent now. I appologise for causing a scene. I merely wanted you to see. I'll be a good, obedient little girl again. I'll drown my mouth with alcohol- probably cheap vodka- and stop my words with pills.
My heart is about to stop beating. My lungs going to cease breathing. Unable to continue screaming.
I wait, my face expressionless, my mind a blank, twisted void. My eyes don't fill with stars, as I have heard of occuring before. The sun is still up, burning bright. There are no stars here. Instead my eyes fill with grains of sand, blown like clouds of smoke by wisps of wind. So carelessly. Like God has taken a handful of the stuff, and thrown it into the sky, where it floated and settled again. Wanting to take back what he created, perhaps. His own version of blowing out wishes on dandelions.
Is this hell? I don't care anymore. Anywhere is better than our dying world, with our poisonous race of demons, all those black eyes filling up with hate and gluttony. The blame is theirs. The blame is mine. Forgive them. Forgive me.
My eyes prickle. Tears fall. They sting like acid. How they sting.
Here, there are no shadows to protect me. I see no safe place of cold and darkness to withraw into, as I have done many so times before. Too many times to be counted. My bedroom, for instance, with its drawn shades, is my sanctuary. It lives and breathes, understands me. I belong there, but I am just a slave here. It is only me and the dreadful sun.
In a stiff ball of agony, my fingers curl to fists.
I lie in my arid tomb. Lifeless. Untrue. An illusion of the hideous world.
My life a lie, my death a disguise. My skeleton smile a goodbye, my corpse attracting the flies.
Everything about me is fabricated. I think I am ready to leave now.
The birds close in, sealing my doom, sealing my doom.
Their razor- sharp beaks are wrecking me. I am numb.
My thoughts are torn asunder. What do they want? What do they want?
This is the beginning of my sempiternal punishment. I suppose it could have been worse.
What have I done?
Do I deserve this?
My mind is gone. Forgotten. Lost.
I no longer know anything.
Pain, pain- it hurts like nothing else. I haven't made this pain on my own, for once the cause is something else. It hurts more, knowing I haven't caused it. There is so much that of it that I am too distracted to form answers to simple questions.
This pain is all I know now.
Beak. Tear. Flesh. Swallow.
Oblivion.
But still my senses haven't stopped working.
What do they want from me?
Can anybody hear me?
What is happening to me?
Somebody please answer me.
Recommend Write a ReviewReport
Australia • 26 years old