She

She sits in a dark room with her finger on the trigger. Her fingers etching in agitation. Is she prepared to commit this sin? The loaded barrel pressed up against her temple. The cold metal leaving rings of anguish that will never be washed away, not really. Fingers twitching and clutching and- Boom!

Except it's not that dramatic. Except there is no gun. Except there is no sin. Just feelings poking around and crawling inside her brain. Fingers pattering on her lobes. Whispers rippling around her head. Obsessions. Compulsions.

A feeling of existentialism. What is the point? Is there a point- will there ever be a point?

Cold air brushes against her skin. Sirens and cars pierce her ears. Their horns and blares creeping in through the window she left open. Gentle drops of rain and scurries of wind never cease to be ever so dominant. After all, what day wasn't a depressing ditch of dismal weather and feeling in England?

Sitting cross-legged on the carpet. Feeling the scruff of the strands as her fingers run across the floor.

Snapping back into it. Jumping off the train. Another train of thought departing from the station.

She can't sit and do nothing. It drives her mad. Is it too late for her? Gripping her bag and throwing it on her shoulder. A black backpack gripping to the darkness of her clothes and the paleness of her complexion. Shutting every door behind her, she can't help it. An anxious thing maybe? Distrust? Whatever it was, wherever she went she could not help it.

Leaving the front door and pacing away. Leaving the comfort of her own home to enter the unknown because that's so much more normal, right?

Looking at nature. Looking at the beautiful world around her. She should feel so much. So much love and light and happiness in this world. But she feels nothing. Having the darkness coating her like a blanket or suffocating her like a pillow. Puddles of water dampen her shoes. Rain is no longer a sound out the window but a reality on her face and her neck and her arms.

But the thoughts aren't stopping. Obsessive. Compulsive. Every footstep another thought. Another mile, another end. She wishes it was an end.

Crashing in like a flood. Coating her thoughts like blood. And she can't stop thinking about it. About stupid things. And she craves the end. She craves the darkness with no light. She craves nothing. Nothing at all.

One foot in front of the other. Crossing out onto the road. Cars. Lights. An escape. Be an escape. One foot infront of the other.
Done.