giving up { g h o s t s } // chelsey
Feb 26, 2014 16:47:50 GMT -5
Post by Stare on Feb 26, 2014 16:47:50 GMT -5
come here, it’s all worth the fight
when it’s you dear
we’re hitting our heads on the wall here
we don’t have to hold on so tightly
when it’s you dear
we’re hitting our heads on the wall here
we don’t have to hold on so tightly
I've feared oblivion since I was very young. That which most people take comfort in terrifies to me no end, tangling my limbs in snowy sheets until I'm as pathetic as a spider caught in her own web. I know better than to think myself a female warrior battling off nightmares. What terrorizes me is a necessity; sleep is to my mind as oxygen is to my lungs
Since she left, though, I've found new things to fear. I lie awake in bed not because I am scared of the alternative but because I am wondering where she is, how she is, and why on Earth I believed myself to be more important to this household than her. It is a taunting carousel of fear and self-loathing that leaves me on my feet well into the night, cleaning dishes a thousand times and scrubbing the lingering ashes from any crevice or corner I may have forgotten. During the day I watch as everything I so carefully built crumbles without her, and I know - I know - that things would be better had I taken her place.
I didn't, though.
We've been the object of pity in the district. Flowers adorn our kitchen table, bringing brightness where it does not belong, and I'm actually able to buy the extra blankets we need to keep comfortable through this mercilessly frigid weather. Nothing for myself, though. No, I am satisfied with what I have - a bedroom where soot still seems to linger no matter how I try to remove it, and a little journal. I sit with it now, attempting see it despite the darkness that cloaks the room. When I flip through it I see far too many empty pages, and it aches deep in my chest to know she never had the chance to fill them.
I should cry, but somehow I don't. I haven't cried since she left. I refuse to break down in front of the kids, of course, but even when I'm certain I'm alone I can't bring myself to shed a single tear. I think that's the worst part of it all. They stole my child, my sister, my little girl, and force her to carry the lives of twenty three others on her small shoulders, and I can't even cry for her. It makes me wonder if I am despicable or lost or both. Surely I'm not brave. I've known that since the day the words I volunteer did not pass my lips.
I close the notebook, my eyes fluttering shut for a moment, before rising like a corpse from the dead, all hollow movements and empty eyes. My feet carry me into the hall and I linger there for a moment, wondering what exactly I will clean in order to cope tonight. (dear, you can't go on like this.) Eventually I find myself moving with a purpose, though one I am uncertain of. Out of all of the orphans he is the one I wish to see the least, but at the same time I find myself gravitating toward him, having spun out of orbit too many times to count and desperately hoping that this time will be different.
Of course, it doesn’t help that he hasn’t said two words to me since the Reaping.
The distance between my bedroom and his seems so much shorter than usual, and suddenly I'm standing aimlessly in front of a closed door, my heart thudding in my chest, the journal clutched tightly in one hand. This is not the time to bother nor burden him, but I don't know where else to go. Every breath I take is like poison, spreading the numbness I wish so desperately not to feel. I doubt he can heal me - no one can - but perhaps lifting the weight off his shoulders will be enough to make me feel again.
My knuckles fall upon the door before I can change my mind. “Edgar?” I call out, my tone low in case anyone is sleeping. It’s unlikely. Ever since the Reaping they have all feared sleep almost as much as I do. I bring the journal up to my chest protectively. “I have something and I, um… I think you deserve it more than I do.”
Frustration comes far too quickly when he doesn’t respond immediately. It’s a mood swing so abrupt that I almost question it (and maybe if I did I would link it to the hours spent staring at the blank ceiling rather than resting), but instead I knock on his door again, this time somewhat insistently. “Edgar, I know you’re awake,” I say, my voice more stern. He’s possibly drunk, probably ignoring me, but certainly not asleep. Not now, when his nightmares are more real than ever. “You can’t ignore me forever. We need to talk.”
slow down
we’re losing the meaning of words now
quiet the noise 'cause we made
a mountain of minuscule things
we’re losing the meaning of words now
quiet the noise 'cause we made
a mountain of minuscule things
