It's been an absolute grand time, let me tell you.
I watch two drops of condensation race down the opaque window. The one I’ve been secretly cheering for is in the lead. They look like two teardrops falling in tandem, one slightly more broken and eager to reach its destination. It breaks itself onto the window ledge, its sad song finished in such an anticlimactic way.
Twisting my unruly hair into a messy bun, I grab a quill out of my bag and secure it in place. I rest uneasy eyes on the book in front of me. The silver cover shimmers in the glow of the candle that’s sitting atop the table. I guess I’m a masochist because I flip the cover open and flatten out the blank page. I reach behind me and stab the tip of my finger with the quill wrapped up in my hair. I don’t even feel the sting. As if it’s a perfectly normal thing to do, I squeeze drops of blood onto the pages and wait.
The response is almost immediate. Red ink splotches beneath my watchful gaze.
Hello, Weaver.
I arch a delicate red brow. Hmph. Well, that’s new. “Tired of calling me Liminal?” I ask blandly.
Delicate curves splash across the page.
A thread has more than one name.
I’m not sure I care to have more than one. Life is already complicated enough.
“Right now, I just need a friend, Silver. Not a puzzle to be worked out.” I close my eyes and squeeze the sides of the book. “I’m not positive, but I think I might be at rock bottom.”
I reluctantly peel my eyes back open to read the response. The letters sink into the pages before being replaced with new words.
Rock bottom is never really the bottom. They’ll just bring a shovel.
I raise one corner of my mouth in a half-smile. Apparently, Silver has a sense of humor. Who knew. “Helpful as always,” I mutter, my voice lacking any real anger.
The page flips on its own accord.
Sometimes, things done with the best of intentions cut the deepest. Only those who care deeply enough have the ability to break the skin.
There’s a pause, but the page hums beneath my fingertips like it’s not quite through. Slowly, it finishes its thought.
They also have the ability to decimate us beyond rationality.
“Isn’t that the truth?” I rub the page between my fingers. “Silver, what’s my place in all of this? What’s the endgame for me? Do I belong here? Is leaving even an option at this point?”
The page flips again but remains empty, as if it’s weighing its words carefully. Finally, when I’m not sure I can’t wait much longer, the letters spiral across the parchment.
Don your mask with reverence. Covertness is key. The ending is yours, what kind shall it be?
I toss my head back and stare at the ceiling.
Without thinking, I lean forward, close the book, and toss it in my bag. I’ve had just about all I can handle from everyone at this point, including the odd little book.
Every once in a while, footfall passes by the door, a student on their way to or from class. I’m surrounded by more people than I’ve ever been surrounded by in my entire life, yet I feel more alone than ever. There are hundreds of students here, not to mention the professors, medical staff, dining personnel, and even the voicebounds forced to serve their sentence within these walls. Yet I am unequivocally alone.
Funny, how I used to think that was such a luxury.
I craved time carved out by myself, thrived on it in fact. Yet here I am, sitting in this darkened classroom, basking in the realization that it’s lonely. Truly isolating to not have a singular person in your corner that you can trust to catch you.
A trust fall.
Yeah, I don’t have one of those.
Not anymore. Potentially never had one in the first place.
And to be honest, I’m not sure I’ll ever open myself up to having one again. To be this bitter at such a young age is not only unhealthy but heartbreaking. I never want to feel that hollow feeling again that I felt that day in the hall. To feel like my insides are being dug out with a dull spoon while I desperately try to stay conscious, to wrap my hands around my still beating heart and protect it the best I can. To only realize that while I was so busy trying to protect it, it was turning to ash in my palms.
I’d cry right now if I had any tears left. However, my pillow has absorbed every single one that I had bottled up over the years. I gave them all away. I have no more left to give.
