Heartless

Death surrounds me, every moment of every day.

The asphyxiation is unbearable, I cannot breathe, I cannot call for help. Please, why does no one help me? Why does no one notice me? Oh, that's right. I am already dead. My body may live on, but my heart and my soul have suffered and cowered under the torment. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. I am a ghost, living in an animated corpse. How delicate and cruel, for misfortune to accidently separate us.

If the skeletal hands of death have torn my heart away, then of course I am in hell. I look around me, and admire the grotesque beauty that surrounds me. There is no fire, though the heat of hatred and destruction is an adequate substitute. There are no demons, only lost and hopeless souls such as myself. Tormented, lonely and fearful. What else, I want to ask, is there to fear in hell? All of our worst nightmares are already living, breathing putridly down our necks and drowning our happiness in pain.

Where is the lord of this chaos? I see no satanic creature, devouring and dilapidating at its desires. Why can't there be an almighty luminary to direct this abominable disorganisation of suffering? I will not step up to the throne, my hands reek of the stench of blood already. No amount of tears will wash away the foulness of my thoughts. I am doomed to reside with them, reluctantly coexisting the presence of my shadowed memories. Blocking my ears does not sound out the cruel, punishing voices. Decapitation is the only answer. So why, when I bring the knife to my throat, do I find it falling to greet my wrists? I find blood, and a new form of pain, though I am unconvinced it is real. None of it can be real.

Quick, someone is coming!

Hide the pain, hide the blood. Force a smile and hope that it can miraculously be passed as genuine. Do they notice that I am crying, screaming inside for their help, though I cannot accept it? Do they not see that these thoughts, these nightmares have already murdered me? How can they speak with this empty shell, unknowing that I am gone, that I am dead?

I find my way to company, praying to God that they will help. My structured smile and fake laughter becomes easier, slightly releasing the metaphorical noose around my own neck. The chair I stand on has broken legs, and it will not take much to knock me down, to tighten the noose. I am hopeful that when I leave, I can remain high up on my rickety chair. However, in solitude the chair slips, and down I fall. The rope is strong, it will hold.

Please, do not leave me by myself. Please. No, don't go!

When you are around, I am determined not to let you see into my empty shell. The sun cannot warm my skin, though I pretend that it does. When you are gone, and I find myself alone with nothing but my own thoughts, I am vulnerable. I am incapable. I cannot help but let my true feelings reach the surface, and I am consumed by the inevitability that they have corrupted my soul, dragging it down into something that I am terrified to think of.

I must force it back, I cannot let it take over. I must fake a smile and tell myself that everything is alright, even when it is evidently not.
Even when all I want is for everything to end.
My upmost desires haunt me, frighten me…
Though I try not to think it, I can feel it.
Deep down, the only thing I want is for death's cold hands to quietly collect me.

Footsteps. Someone is coming.

Put on a smile.

If only, for now.