The clock reads five O’three. The bed is warm, comfortable, and seemingly separated from the rest of the world. Life has yet to start for the day, and Sarah knows it. Sleep once again eluded her. Nonetheless, she wishes to remain in her cozy cocoon. Should she leave it, Sarah fears she won’t be able to return. Should she set foot on the floor, Sarah’s day will begin. She will lose all this comfort, all this peace; and for what: friends, who can’t see her, a father, who can’t love her, and a future, which can’t save her.
Five O’Four, Sarah watches as time moves past her. Would it leave her here? Could it leave her here? Would it be so bad if it did? Wrapped away in her burrow of blankets, Sarah finds it hard to think not. She pulls herself deeper into the sheets until only her eyes are uncovered. The warmth weighs on her sleepy eyes; though no matter how long she keeps them closed, somehow they always rise.
“It’s not fair,” Sarah says to herself, “just let me sleep.”
“Nothing is forcing you to rise,” says a voice. It’s a man’s voice; deep, calm, tired and sad, with just a hint of noble pride. “You could stay here. You could let it end here. It would not be a bad place to end.”
“It is nice,” she replies, “perhaps I should. Why not here?”
“Why not, indeed,” says the voice, “many dream of fading quietly in their sleep; however, you may not find it as comfortable in a few hours. Life has its ugly ways of pushing one out of bed.”
“You’re contradicting yourself again,” Sarah sighs, “could stay, can’t stay, make up your mind.”
“There are two sides to everything, Sarah,” the voice states, “and I speak them both.”
Five O’Five, life begins with a pop of static. A high waling follows. It grows more ear biting with every passing second. Sarah doesn’t even try for the clock. By her own design, it lies well out of her grasp. Only by rising, only by starting, can Sarah stop this pain.
Yes, it is a pain. Sarah’s life is full of such pains. Pain moves her and guides her forward when nothing else can. Sarah knows this and so fills her world with little pains. She needs them or rather can’t live without them. If not for pain, she may have stayed there forever; as things were, Sarah rose from her cocoon. She walked over to the table and turned off the alarm.
In the silence come the whispers. The soft, faraway voices of lost souls echo through her room. Their shadows dance in the grey moonlight upon her bedroom walls. The air is crisp and chilled to a near frost. It nips at Sarah’s frail, naked frame. She rubs the goosebumps on her arms and looks into the night from beyond her window.
The moonlight silhouettes the deep forest, which surrounds Sarah’s home. The beams pass through the cracked glass of her window. Fresh snow gathers on the frame. Sarah sighs as she thinks of the painstaking walk to the bus awaiting her.
Reconsidering her day, she looks back to her bed. Shoved into the top-left corner of her room, it rests completely stripped. Sarah looks down at the floor. A rainbow of grey blankets lie spiraled across it. In her comfort, she must have pulled them off as she got up. A clear sign her body wants to return to bed as much as her mind. Picking them up would be a pain; although if she did, Sarah could just wrap herself back into her cocoon and drop straight into the bed. Of course, it would not be long until another of life’s inconveniences forced her out.
“Another lovely day,” Sarah sighs. She turns to the darkest corner of the room. “Is it not, Sam?”
In the shadows sits a man. His long thin figure slumps up against the wall. One leg stretches out before him, while he uses the knee of the other as an armrest. In his hand, he holds a long black opium pipe. At its end, does not rise smoke, but light. It is a beautiful aurora of magical lights, though what leaves his mouth is not. With every puff, a thick grey smoke flows out from the cracks of his face; and cracks there are.
A skeleton’s grin has been carved across the man’s face. It reaches from ear to ear. Black thread holds the crack together, like a dead man’s jaw. If not for it, the face would depict the perfect features of an angel. The entirety of the man’s head seems to be carved from some mysterious white stone. If seen from a distance it may be mistaken for a skull.
His eyes lay half closed. Behind those lids, glitters of gold swim in an ocean of emptiness. Like stars to a black hole, they gather into galaxy-like irises. Deity and devil all in one, this man dresses in fine black clothes. He wears a silver chain, like a tie around his neck; and a black high hat rests upon his head.
“Indeed, I believe today will be especially lovely,” the man replies.
With that, Sarah leaves the room and walks to the bathroom. It stands only two doors to the right of her own. The door between the two is her old room. The door hangs ajar; its handle quite broken. A year now, that door has stood ajar. I’ll take care of it later Sarah keeps telling herself.
As Sarah passes the open door, she glances in. The room is rather empty, only her old bed remains. That and a large bloodstain on the floor. In the grey moonlight, the stain appears black. Sarah rests herself against the entrance. She stares deeply into the stain.
“Thinking of old memories,” Sam asks standing over her. Sarah looks up at him, “Sam, what’s today?”
“December 8th, I believe,” he answers. Sarah looks back to the stain, “tomorrow’s our anniversary.”
“Is it? And here I am without a gift,” Sam jests. Sarah pushes herself from the frame and continues to the bathroom, “it’s alright; I don’t have anything for you either.”
She shuts the door behind her and wastes no time undressing. Sam walks through the door, like the ghoul he is. As Sarah undresses, he takes a seat on the toilet. She starts up the shower and jumps in long before the water is warm. The frigid rain pierces her flesh, like tiny ice sickles. Through clenched teeth and wide eyes, Sarah endures. Shivering, she begins to feel alive. She holds her arms close to her body. She looks down at the cross-shaped scars on her arms.
“How should I die this time,” she wondered out loud.
“Why does it matter,” Sam asks, “death is death.”
“I think it should be peaceful this time,” Sarah answers, “don’t you.”
“Why,” asks Sam, “It was hardly peaceful the first time.”
“But it’s different this time,” Sarah states, “This time, it’s not about me hating the world.”
“Is it not,” Sam asks.
“No,” Sarah argues, “I don’t hate the world anymore; I just don’t see a reason to stay. It’s not even about the world anyway. It’s about us now. It’s about me always being with you.”
“are we not already,” Sam states.
“No,” Sarah says, “We’re not, not really. There’s a veil between us. Can’t you feel it?”
“Yes,” Sam answers, “But it is a thin veil. Is removing it really worth the rest of your life? After all, we are promised to each other. It makes no difference whether you live one year or a hundred. In the end, we will be together, so try not to be so impatient.”
The water finally warms. Sarah grabs the bar of soap and begins cleaning herself. She rubs the soap over her arms, as she continues to contemplate the different ways to end. “I want to look beautiful for it. I think pills would be the best way.”
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“One pill at a time,” Sam chuckles, “it may take awhile, and you will most likely end up vomiting all over yourself.”
Sarah groans at the thought of being found covered in vomit.”Why is it so hard to die pleasantly?”
“Because life’s a bitch,” Sam states, “Why not drowned yourself? It can be peaceful if you let it.”
Washing her legs, Sarah can’t help but see the soap scum coating the tube floor. She looks over at the wall, where several tiles have either cracked or completely broken off. “In a better tube, I might, but not here.”
“Besides, I want to die in your arms, Sam,” Sarah continues, “if it’s my choice, I’d like to die in one of your dreams.”
She soaks her hair and lets the shampoo sit. She gives the steam to fill the small room. When she leaves the shower, Sarah finds the bathroom fogged in a humid mist. She wraps herself in towels and sits before the sink. With one towel, Sarah wipes the fog from the mirror. In the reflection, she observes herself. Her classmates often compare her to a doll. It’s meant as a compliment. She doesn’t see it. All she sees is a weak, sickly pale little girl. The sight of her bones so prominently outlined by her flesh makes Sarah feel sick.
She brushes her long straight white hair and applies a protective cream to her fair alabaster skin, another of life’s natural pains. Though from the sight of her window, the sun would not be too harsh today. Next, Sarah applies contacts to her eyes. This is a difficult matter as they are hidden behind a mask.
Made of the same white stone as Sam’s, her mask takes the shape of a blind fox. Even though there are no eyes, Sarah’s vision is unhindered. When she first saw the mask, it was cover with cracks and chips. Now, the mask is nearly flawless. Only two small cracks remain. As Sarah’s hand approaches the mask, it fades beneath her fingers.
“When I die, will I feel it,” Sarah asks placing the other contact.
“When you die, you feel nothing,” Sam answers. He had moved to the corner of the tube. Sarah finishes by taking a razor to her scars. She rubs it across her wrist, not enough to break, just enough to remember.
With her morning rituals finished, Sarah returns to her room. The cold once more embraces her. Again, she passes her old room. Even while chilled and wet, Sarah can’t help but look in. Like driving past a car crash, she finds herself slowing to a near halt. Her gaze fixates on the stain of her past. When she can turn her head no more, Sarah looks back to the hallway and returns to her room.
When she enters, Sarah finds Sam already slouched against the same corner as before. She gathers her school uniform, a white dress shirt, a pair of black wool stockings, a bra and panties from her closet. She places them on her bed. Sarah removes her towel and dresses quickly. The winter uniform lessens the room’s chilly burn, but cannot extinguish it. She brushes a black headband into her hair.
Sarah glances at the pile of blankets still spiraled across the floor. She thinks to herself I’ll take care of it later. As she leaves, Sarah grabs her school bag, which rests against a desk next to the door. One more time, Sarah passes her old bedroom; and one more time, she glances in at the old stain.
She walks down the stairs leading to the first floor. At the bend, the dent covers the wall. Bits have fallen off revealing the stud behind. Sarah ignores it. Straightforward from the stairs is the front door. She throws her school bag next to it. On the coat rack, Sarah sees her earmuffs. She plucks them off and presses them against her ears. They help immensely to warm her. She also sees her scarf and coat. She considers taking them; but, decides against it. It wouldn’t be good should she make a mess of breakfast.
For now, the earmuffs will have to do. Sarah heads right from there, through the dining room, and into the kitchen. There, she prepares a simple breakfast of oatmeal and tea. She sits with Sam at the dining room table.
Plain and tasteless, the meal serves only the purpose of filling her. Sarah tosses her dishes into the sink, with all the others. She thinks to herself I’ll take care of it later. She prepares a second identical breakfast. This one, she places on a tray.
Before heading upstairs, Sarah puts on her shoes. She carries the breakfast up to the second floor. She heads right to the last door of the hallway. This door leads to her father’s study. Rot spreads out from the door like a disease. Much of the paint on the frame has chipped off. The wallpaper surrounding the door has pealed. Behind it, the wood molds. Sarah stands before the door. The putrid stench of decay already burns at her nose. Her eyes grow wet from the sting. She sighs as unpleasant thoughts grow in her mind. With a deep breath and a forced smile, Sarah opens the door.
The room’s aroma wafts over her like steam. As she enters, it clings to her like slime. Moonlight from a single window illuminates the room. Piles of canvases, blank and painted alike, clutter the room. Their corners, nibbled and torn, are clear signs of mice. From the smell of things, Sarah is certain several of the rodents decayed within the clutter. Clothing of Sarah’s late mother envelope the walls. They are hung by strings.
Sarah never enters the study without shoes. Even with them, she walks carefully, so not to step on anything unsavory. The floor is wooden and creeks with every step. Sarah hears skittering as mice flee from the canvases surrounding her. She moves through a cleared path; she made long ago. It was not too much trouble to reach the center,
At the center of the room, Sarah’s father sits atop a stool. He is a tall, bony man. Shaggy old cloths seven sizes too large hang from him like robes. He Hunches over his stool like a vulture. His attention fixated on the blank canvas before him. He holds a dry brush in one hand and a wooden palette in the other. Dry paints coat the palette.
A small wooden table, covered in drips of paint, stands to the man’s side. On it is a cup of nearly black water, a cup of stale milk, and a plate of leftovers. The two cups sit uncomfortably close to one another. A filthy bed mat lies behind the table. With the moon to his back, Sarah cannot see her father’s face. Grateful, she observes the plate of leftovers. It holds a half-eaten meal of pork chops, peas, and potatoes.
“You hardly touched the pork chops,” Sarah says cheerfully. She exchanges the leftover dinner with the breakfast, “but you ate most the peas and potatoes.”
“No,” he murmurs. Sarah continues, “Tonight, I’ll make something softer; a stew perhaps.”
“No,” he says louder now, “No.”
“Tonight, I’ll make something softer; a stew perhaps,” Sarah finishes. She pulls away from the table. A cold hand grabs her. The sound of his paintbrush hitting the wooden floor echoes in the silence. He holds her by the wrist. Loose flaps of skin dangle from his bony arm. Her father turns to her. His face emerges from the shadows, “Where is she? Where’s my little girl?”
A horrific lopsided mask stares lifelessly at Sarah. It takes the shape of an ashen grey sun with a sunken in face. A light hue is all that remains of a previously rich sky blue vigor. Once, vibrant blues and violets panted flames, which framed the mask. The flames danced and spun around it like Ferris wheels. Now, the wheels stand still, their flames left in ruin, and the colors just as grey.
In the past, passionate pink eyes stared widely to the heavens. Now, all but closed and black as coal, they stare down at the floor. Only the mask’s wide cartoonish grin kept its form; though the cheerful, chubby checks, which were speckled with gold, have sagged. They hang from the face like those of a bulldog.
Worst of all, a large crack splits the mask in two. Black ooze, as thick as blood, drips from it like a gaping wound. The same black blood falls from the eyes, nose, and gums of the mouth. The ooze pours from the mask and vanishes before hitting the ground. Sarah’s smile fades, as she pulls the steak knife into her hand. She looks up at her father with a cold, threatening gaze. Clear and concise, Sarah says, “Let me go.”
“Yes, yes, there she is,” her father says with a sick sense of glee, “there’s my little girl.”
“Let me go,” Sarah says again. The man releases her. He picks up his brush and dips it into the cup of dirty water. He rubs it against the dried paints on his wooden palette. They mix into a dark, dirty grey. He begins to paint. The whole time, he repeats those words, “There she is, there’s my little girl.”
Her heart racing, Sarah rushes out of the room. Furiously, she kicks any canvas blocking her path. She slams the door shut behind her and rests up against it. She slides down and pushes the tray to her side. Sarah pulls her knees in close. Her heart throbs as she gasps for air. “Why must it hurt, Sam?”
“Life always hurts,” Sam answers. He sits against the wall across from her. He puffs on his pipe as he speaks, “It is life’s nature to hurt; It is the cost of pleasure. Though the pain you feel now is one of choice.”
“It doesn’t feel like it,” Sarah argues. Sam exhales a great gust of smoke, “Is this not what you wanted? He sees you now. He knows what you are. Was that not the purpose of all this?”
“No, not entirely. I thought,” Sarah searches for the words, “I don’t know, alright. I did want him to see me, but I also wanted him to love me. Is that too much to ask? If I just had one person, who both sees and loves me, I think that would be enough.”
“Do you,” Sam asks. Sarah nods her head, “Yes.”
“Your mother saw you and loved you,” Sam States. Sarah laughs, “My mother thought I was broken.”
“I did not say she was wise or right for that matter,” Sam explains, “In her own foolish way, she was trying to protect you. She thought the world would be too cruel to someone like you. Her mistake, a mistake made by many mortals, was not realizing the world cares for no one. To the world, we are all equally nothing. Best to accept it.”
“That’s what I want,” Sarah says ignoring most of Sam rambling, “I want to be accepted. My mother did not accept me.”
“Acceptance,” Sam puffs, “a hard thing to get when you hide behind a face of lies.”
Sarah pulls more into herself. The two sit there in silence. Voice whisper around them in the dark hall. A small black beetle crawls on the rug before Sarah. She watches as it moves along the rug’s withered pattern. She wonders if it knows of pain or pleasure. How simple the life of a beetle must be. As it moves under her feet, Sarah crushes it. “Right then, no more lies.”