She stares into empty space. The room is empty but for her. And she locks her door. There is no one in her room, except for her, now. It was as she wanted.
And she sits down on her bed, as if in a trance, and tears stream out of her face. It was not the first time she cried that day, but it was not to be the last. There was no hope, it seemed. She didn't want that. She needed to hold on to that last glimmer of hope. It was the making of her. And yet, she knew, if she dared to hope, she would be more hurt if it had all failed.
So she sat there, looking at her reflection in the window, confused. She could not control the situation. The first time in her life, she felt that there was no hope. Or that she could not have hope. A profound sense of helplessness took her, and she laid down on the bed, letting out fresh streams of tears. But she laid there silent. Her weeping was eerily quiet. There was a sense of acceptance in her, and yet, if she thought into the acceptance, of what was to happen tomorrow, she would really let the helplessness take her in completely. So she tried not to think about it.
It was hard. There was to be a lot of things she had to do before the next day. She just wanted to cry. And yet she didn't want to cry again. She had cried a lot that day. She felt drained, of every emotion. But she could still think. What had made her a person refused to be drained, and her thoughts brought back glitters of emotion. She didn't want to cry anymore, but she wanted to cry about the injustice of it all.
She was so confused.
chiiyo's comments :
This little piece is mostly based on fact. I wrote it after something that hurt me a lot happened, something that I felt helpless about, because I had to back down without a fight. That was what irked me, and what made me the saddest: that I couldn't even go down fighting. Even now, with that event long past, when I read this piece, those feelings flood back, and I remember every emotion I felt then. Especially the feeling of confusion, the feeling of helplessness. Writing for me, is a sort of catharsis, which is why a lot of my writing is very sad, because sometimes, I only write when I'm sad.