Parasite

Preface

This story contains themes of dissociation, alexithymia, trauma, guilt, self-loathing, loss, depression and suicide.

Chapters:

1. A journal
2. A friend
3. A mentor
4. A guardian
5. A reflection
6. A looking glass
7. A distant fire

Credit

Fonts used:

• Iosevka Aile
• Terminess Nerd Font
• URW Gothic

CSS tricks:

• Lined paper effect
• Decayed paper effect
• Auto-line numbering

A journal

The room sits idle, resting in the silence of the nightly sun. Errant rays of moonlight seep in from between the curtains, melding with the veil of black. The low rumble of glass rises, acquiescing to the howl of wind beyond them. The sparse shimmers conjoin into a brighter and brighter singular, swaying branches parting their resistance.

The drone builds, the luminance intensifies. A swell no less out of place than the quiet preceding it. The momentum shifts, the crescendo reaching its peak. The dull glimmer breaks apart, the pieces fizzling dimmer yet dimmer. The mutter attenuates, quieter yet quieter. Their departure as imperceptible as their arrival, the point of waning as indistinguishable as the waxing. Yet they care not, for the cycle begins again.

An unending swell and abatement, swell and abatement. Arrhythmic and barely present. The extremes of magnitude as natural as the transitory median. Each nadir leaving naught but an echo of its pair, donned once more as it shifts to the apex. An ever-changing stillness, the idle breath of peace; and within it builds discord.

Thuds. In sequence, in tandem. The sharpness pierces through the constant groaning, ringing its knell. Louder yet louder, until they reach an abrupt momentary halt. The door opens, legs march in, and two switches flick.

A dull, fluorescent white fills the room. It leaves no purchase for the previous inhabitant, the nascent lux overpowering its predecessor, even the brief flickers too bright for the moon to make its presence known. The whir of blades finds its equilibrium, its mere presence suffocating the ambient rattling. A new constant, its mere arrival drowning out its ancestor, its intrusion an imposition.

Motion pauses beside an old, dusted mirror. Eyes peer into the hazy fog it reflects, finding nothing of substance. A lethargic arm rises, the sleeve sweeping away what detritus it can. Vision flits between whatever manages to hold it. The faded, worn-out clothing. The overgrown hair. The gaunt cheeks. Anywhere else. Anywhere, but meeting its sunken, reflected source.

“Even now…”

The lips remain sealed, the muscles remain fixed. The throat does not bother to give voice to words, the intruder already moving to a familiar desk. Limbs turn to action, opening drawers, retrieving items. Handled with reverence, placed with grace; memorabilia cherished and repressed. Once, twice, thrice.

A heavy heart steels itself. Hands reach out towards the nape, untying the knot of thread bound across it. A key hangs loose for the last time, soon guided to its home. A journal lies within, a pen within its binds, freed from its long solitude. Its pages unread, its pages remain unread. The mind would need no aid to relive its words.

Fingers flip to the end, seeking a fresh page. The writer puts words to ink once more.

A friend

Drops of rain pelt against the concrete floor. A light drizzle, its weeping wasted on the cold, unliving floor. Creak, plunk, thud. Creak, plunk, thud. The barricade falls, granting entry to the old abandoned shophouse. Feet move from one dark canopy to another.

The stairwell is emptier than memory recalls. None of the flower pots, none of the paintings. Nothing remained, save the dust-ridden floor and the rusted-over railings. The deli, or what was left of it.

Why?

The door to the storefront offers no resistance, the lock broken by others that came before. Unmanned and unmaintained, nothing to stop prying eyes from taking anything not part of the foundation.

Barren and empty, the tables gone, the windows cracked, the walls discolored. Every inch a modicum of its former state. Ruined beyond repair. A past that will never return. The only state the perusing eyes deserved to see.

Why do I think I have any right?

One step after another, headed towards a familiar corner. The perspective is raised, the visage decrepit, the chair missing, yet the sight intertwines with reminiscence regardless. The shoulders slump, the head braces against the wall, and the eyes lose themselves in a waking dream.

You did so much for me.

A careless mistake, and the finger had bled. An idle fidget had grazed around the perimeter of the table. A minuscule protrusion pierced the skin and gave way to liquid. Blame laid at the self, for something so minor, for something that would undoubtedly spiral.

The back leaned against the wall. Hoping to hide the wound. Hoping to play off the injury as non-existent. Yet youth would always be inexperienced. Carelessness had reared its betrayal once, so it would again. Not that it would have changed much given the child in question.

You gave so much for me.

Inquisitive eyes stared back, curious at the abnormal stance, then narrowed in suspicion. The shift in gaze did not need to be followed for the guilt to well up. A speck of blood, barely visible, stained the exterior of the otherwise pristine table.

“Pa! Where are the band-aids again?"

A meek attempt is made, to halt the snowball, to not raise a fuss. It had no effect on the youth already making a beeline for the door.

You reached out, offered a hand

“Give me your finger."

The pair was forged years ago, enough time for each to glean the other’s thoughts. No words needed to be said, to picture the object in mental focus.

“Don’t worry about the table. You’re bleeding. Pa said we’re going to the doctor after."

But still not enough to get at the source.

“…Sorry”

with nothing but sincerity.

The child’s eyes bore into the seat of the vision, very much annoyed and exasperated.

“Shush. Friends are supposed to help each other. You don’t need to say sorry for every single thing. Now gimme."

The limb in question relents, given no other choice. Muscles contract to give the barest hint of a smile, forced as always.

And I spat in your face.

The young adult wakes from the undeserved indulgence. The calm had been long snuffed out. There was no else to blame for the storm. Feet find a steady pace once more, away from the temptation of comfort, towards another sight; the only one that had been earned.

Steps are taken, punctuated and heavy, following a path oft walked. Out the door and up the stairs. To a home away from home. Ignoring the echoes of youthful mirth, ignoring the visions of childhood innocence.

Forever unreturned in ways that mattered, forever one-sided. Always too little, always too late. As in youth, as in adulthood.

Sold you a facade

The bedroom door gives way, the pests within scurrying away from the unfamiliar light from beyond the precipice. Under rotted wood, behind rusted metal. Agents of decay, with nothing left to feed upon; they too would wither and rot.

Lying there still, are fragments of bygone days. The dresser that took the young pair several attempts to simply get standing. Its surface worn with age, the wood showing mold. The countless books entrusted, their stems faded, yellowed and illegible. The cat tree fallen over, its trunk having given way to a festering black. Meaningless and hollow, in the face of what mattered.

that crumbled the moment you needed it.

The situation was dire, a legacy about to be squandered. A past turning to dust. The torch had passed, and yet business was drying up like never before. Both knew it was inevitable.

All manner of advice was given. All manner of help was taken. A number of loans to keep a father’s work intact. A number of distractions to keep the successor’s mind intact. Both saw the end when it arrived.

When debts loomed, when the deli closed, one could do nothing but watch. And the other? The other did nothing. All manner of trite trinkets and pointless gifts. The other ran from the only thing that needed to be done, the only thing of value: offering a simple shoulder to cry on. Always too little, always too late. Meaningless and hollow, empty gestures now reflected in the gaze of the shadow in the bathroom.

I lied to you.

Eyes regard the absent presence within the tub, the invisible stain on the wall. An image burned into the mind, not easily unseen. The imagined smell of necrotic flesh gripping the throat. A searing memory forcing the psyche to recount those scathing words. A sin that couldn’t be washed away.

Always too little, always too late.

So why?

Vision shifts, regarding the open medicine cabinet, its true contents still hidden by the back wall. A hand reaches out, shifting it aside, revealing the safe behind it. Rusted, but unopened, untouched.

The fingers turn the dial, trying all manner of numbers. Any combination that sprang to mind, any sequence deemed relevant. No luck. The digits grew restless, trying desperately to prolong the dawning realization, until there was nothing else to try. The day. That day.

The metal box embedded in within the wall opened, its contents the only thing still preserved, their owner now dead. A feline form, its motion frozen in stasis, its life long spent. A taxidermy mount, with a familiar name adorning the base: ‘Lily’. A proper companion even in death. And beside her lied a diary.

Why do I act like I can care?

A mentor

The busy street flows, people walk to and fro, making their way from one end to the other. No hesitance, no pause. Every face, every soul, all melding into a languid blur. Their identities and dreams inconsequential within the mass.

A pair of eyes regards the moving crowd, looking to the building beyond it. Fragments of its surface strobe into view, recollection trying to fill in the gaps. And failing.

Why?

The blinds flitted open and closed, the electronics within flickering in and out of existence. The banner by the door, present and not. The free-use bookstand in an impossible state of being.

A brief lull, a momentary halt in foot traffic, and the illusion shattered. A building identical to the ones beside it. All life and color washed away, leaving nothing but an endless row of dull gray. The workshop was dead. Paradise had fallen.

Why do I delude myself?

The observer sighs, from a long cold bench. Out of habit perception turns to the side, yet fails to find focus. There was no one there, but the dusty memory of another, seated beside the lone occupant.

You envisioned a path.

“How much longer, do you reckon?"

“We’re not even close to part-way done just for the design. You know that already. What are you expecting, putting in an order to get a prototype manufactured this soon?”

The mentor had long gotten used to the apprentice’s monotone voice. It had resulted in one exuding enough of the opposite to meet up the lack.

A sanctuary.

“Wanna bet if it boots up? Winner gets free lunch."

“…”

“Even if it doesn’t work, that was never the point. Figuring out the how was."

A phrase uttered so often, it might as well have been the motto of the place. A near endless supply of equipment and tools, funded out of pocket, open to all. No end deemed useless to pursue, no limits save one’s own.

So long as one demonstrated willingness, they would be taught. So long as one demonstrated competence, they would be allowed to experiment. As long as the goal was some pursuit of knowledge, personal or otherwise, all were welcome, even more those that were willing to give their fruits.

A noble goal,

“I know you still obsess over your old botched ZIP implementation. Think of it like that."

Actions had converged, a camaraderie built, a kinship forged. A long adrift ship, buckling in an endless storm; at long last it witnessed another. A light, dim and sputtering, yet shining like its own.

“Like a memento. This is the first chance I’ve had to do something this big, just for the sake of it. Without some C-suite asshat breathing down my neck."

Yet a harmony is built on different frequencies. The path was tread together, yet they would part before the end. The immediate goals aligned, yet their purpose was not shared. A mirage would remain a mirage.

proud in its defiance.

An awkward pause builds. Lips refuse to move, not wanting to shatter the image built. A tongue forces its way through, not wanting to make the same mistake again.

“I’m sorry, but I’ll be leaving by the end of the month. The schematics are yours to do with as you will.”

Hopeful eyes turned away. The light within dimming, returning to an older countenance. It wasn’t another impromptu, temporary vacation.

And I trampled it.

The voice is flatter, more dejected. It has returned to its old self. Its natural self. There is an attempt at a facade still, yet it cannot truly hide how much deeper it has fallen.

Even the most hardened crew, content with their predicament, may break when their long awaited salvation goes dark. The faintest hope, ripped from under them as the lighthouse returns to the chaos of black. The promised safety of a shore now an existential peril.

Snuffed out the light.

The shade does not speak, seconds turning to minutes. The student wordlessly stands up again, taking the first steps of a long walk. A single glance is spared, this once.

Back to the unassuming fixture. To the one lying across it, the eyes closed in peaceful slumber. To the mask affixed, a canister beside it. To a crowd gathered in shock. To a teacher lost to an unending vision.

Betrayed your trust.

An elderly woman sits beside the executor, witnessing her child’s legacy. Her gaze empty and broken. One by one, people approach, offering their condolences. All save one, refusing to even meet their wandering.

Always too little, always too late. If she felt ire, if she laid the blame squarely on one, it was wholly deserved. On the one emotionless and silent.

I used you.

Names are called, the named step forth. The items left to them by the deceased, detailed and displayed. Their creations returned, their efforts reimbursed. Familiar names, familiar faces, familiar stories. All silent in respect and gratitude for the one that had given them a chance, let them prosper, let them ascend above menial work into success.

Legs heed their summons, the eyes locked forwards, unthinking, unfeeling. Documentation and drives. Examples and demonstrations. All refused. The mind did not need to look. The mind did not dare to look. Shrugged off, donated to the local school and community college. Teaching aids, delegated to their purpose again.

Used or tossed aside, it did not matter. Anyone else, anything else, deserved them more than their author. Far away, and their existence would continue to mean something.

So why?

The woman hails the figure already turning to leave. Ears focus in on her movement, the barest sound of her lifting a single object. The back stands motionless, bracing for the throw, laying bare to a mother’s rage.

Cold plastic graces the limp fingers. A warmth closes the grip around it. A forced gift, from a parent to the one their young looked up to. Delicate hands acquiesce, cradling the shipment that took a day too long.

Motion returns, the statue moves again, leaving the room’s bounds, crumbling to the floor beyond its threshold. The casing is opened, revealing the failure inside. A board, cracked down the middle, unrepairable and unusable. Dust interwoven in the circuitry, the custom silkscreen print dull and bland. A schematic realized.

Within a port remained an insertion. An MMC card, ejected and transferred into a device that still worked. A single, unreadable file within, passed through a custom program.

Why do I think I can hope?

A guardian

A head pulls away from the pair of trees within the front garden, two sturdy trunks overlooking a younger kin. The green has yellowed, the branches have withered. Three decades of care, of pruning the leaves, of nourishing the soil; all undone in a single year of neglect. A sapling that will never reach the glory of its elders’ primes.

Eyes fixate on the front door, its presence empty and hollow. Inanimate. Silent. Robotic steps move forth, bringing a hand to the precipice, its key clasped in the fingers. The entrance gives way to the deafening nothingness within.

Why?

The very presence is an affront, an insolence. The furniture stares in an unspoken accusation. The fireplace rumbles in extinguished disdain. The empty shelves glare in a void of rage. All focused in on the unwelcome intruder.

Home.

Why did I come back?

Portraits judge the silent march. A face of a child, the mirror’s blackened gaze only deepening with age. A face of an infant, unmet and unseen. A face of a spouse, gone too soon. A face of a guardian.

Each step a quiet thud, muffled by the screaming void of sound. The pace constant, headed towards the master bedroom. A hand reaches out, pushing it open, the harmony of music filling in the crevices of thought.

You’d lost so much already.

A head peaks into the room from the door slightly ajar. Awoken by hunger, but drawn by melody. Sight drifts upwards, to the one seated, fingers gliding across the keys, giving rise to sorrowful resonance.

The practiced hand needs no aid from vision, a haze of tears blocking them out of the present. The toddler watches silently as a soul pours out its sorrow.

And yet still,

The piece ends, and the player remains seated, the drops continuing to flow. A minute, a few; the quiet interrupted by nothing but the intermittent sobs and the low growl of an empty stomach.

The head jolts up, trying to compose itself, wiping away the wetness. Eyes meet their uninvited audience.

you raised me

The musician wastes no time, switching roles from an artist to a caregiver, lifting up the child into a hug. As if the crying had originated from the young one instead. The grumbling continued.

“Di-"

“Do you miss them?”

Some things are better unsaid. Some things, an innocent child does not need to know. But what does a parent do, when it slips through of its own accord? What does a parent do, when the young simply observe what is before them?

like your own flesh and blood.

The cradling arms simply tighten their embrace around the child they have never seen weep.

”…Sometimes people have to go before they want to. Sometimes they have to go without saying goodbye. Its okay to be sad. It just means they meant a lot to you."

The child simply lays still, letting the limbs continue their comforting, failing to earn so much as a sniffle.

And I left.

“Now what did I say about pretending to eat dinner?"

The toddler’s eyes shift guiltily, eliciting a sigh. The two walk out, talking the fog of the past with them. The howling quiet of the room returns with their departure. The illusion fades, and gives way to a void.

There is no longer a musician here, nor even the vestige of a mind locked in solitude. All that remains is an empty deathbed.

Turned my back.

The upright piano sits tucked away into a corner. The cover draped atop, covered in dust. Its shape is still discernible, the edges holding up the fabric. Tantalizing and out of reach; too distant to play a betrothed’s favored song. Until even the fingers lost their movements to apathy, until faltering sight degraded the object to a featureless blob. Until even the memory faded into the ether, a history left unreachable.

Dignity in death, denied.

I abandoned you.

Gone was the IV stand. Gone were the endless medicine bottles. Gone was any hope of stemming the inevitable tide of decay. Until even that was insufficient. Until the rot reached the seat of consciousness. Until not even the drugs could soothe a mind fallen past the brink. Until there was no pain to quell. Until all that was left was to see a vegetative body on to the realm beyond.

Comfort in death, denied.

Gone too was the chair beside the pillow. Always occupied by the hired nurse. Caring for a body that couldn’t even move. Caring for a mind that could barely even think. The only person, the only connection offered before the end. A seat that should have only ever been taken by another.

Solace in death, denied.

I abandoned you.

Always too little, always too late. A return that saw only a mind already dead. The reaper having already claimed its due, leaving nothing but a breathing corpse and its dead, unseeing eyes. A disease having run its course, leaving nothing but a shrieking hollowness. A voice never to be heard again.

Words fell on deaf ears. Offers of shoulders went ignored. The funeral hall remained unentered, the heir to the deceased waiting elsewhere. The crematorium, witnessing another soul turn to cinders, leaving behind a deed unearned and unused for a year too long.

So why?

The orphan kneels down, beside the shadow of a guardian, taking in the sight that had been all the faded one’s last days could see. A phone emerges from a pocket, the volume turned up. A voicemail left unheard, from a time when the sender was still prescient.

Two portraits stare back, the edges covered in grime. A couple, their first joy nestled in their arms, celebrating their wedding anniversary. And beside it lay a mirror; two dull beads peering out, of a monster in beige skin.

Why do I act like I’m even human?

A reflection

Drops fall onto the white pages, smudging the ink of penned words, as the writer buckles over in a fit of rasping sobs. The pen falls to the ground, the clanking absent to the ears. Hands clasp onto the eyes, trying to hold back the broken dam.

“After everything I’ve done. After everything I am. Why? Why do you still forgive me?”

The breathing hitches, uneven and arrhythmic. Lungs spur air they desperately need. The mouth contorts into a grimace, teeth grinding against each other.

“I don’t deserve this. I’ve never deserved any of this.”

Black blood seeps out from the wrists. The smell of putrid flesh assaults the senses. The scent of decomposed tissue fills the room. The buzzing of wings drowns out the silence, chitin legs crawl upon flesh. Nausea takes hold. The writer refuses to vomit.

“What kind of person lies to their friends?”

Enough

The room grows cold. A chill breeze flows past exposed skin. A mask attaches itself to the face. Pressure builds on closed lips. Hypoxic air demands expulsion. The writer refuses to breathe.

“What kind of person betrays the people that help them?”

Enough

Pain grows meaningless. Vision degrades. Memory fades. Motion fails. It hurts to think. It hurts to feel. It hurts to exist. It hurts to hold on. The writer refuses to let go.

“What kind of person abandons family?”

Enough

“I have no soul. I’m not fit to be called human. I don’t deserve forgiveness. I don’t even deserve to mourn. SO WHY!?”

ENOUGH

The white pages remain dry, the words defined and legible. The pen stays aloft, gripped still in hands hanging limply by your sides. Your gaze falls down, your hollow eyes taking in the words you do not remember committing to ink.

You know damn well why.

How many times have you reached this precipice? How many times have you seen beyond only to shun the truth? How much more will you scrape away? Do you even know their names now? Do you even remember their faces anymore? Do the memories you cling to mean nothing, for you to reduce them to this?

You disgust me.

Enough is enough. You’ve ripped away all you can, severed off all the binds you could. It will never be enough, until you take that final stride you refuse to walk. You’ve lived behind this faux guilt for long enough. This unending nightmare you’ve trapped me in ends now, one way or another.

Breathe deep and answer me, Parasite. What now?

A looking glass

A soul pours out its heart before you, playing a somber tune, tears clouding the eyes. The mask is laid aside, the rare flashes of pain no longer hidden. You gaze up into the aspect of raw expression.

You wish to speak, yet your lips remain sealed. You wish to reach out, yet your arms stay by your side. You wish to move, yet your legs remain still. You simply stare silently, for seconds, for minutes. You do not understand.

Your perplexion at your inaction, at the wall of thin air before you, is interrupted by a low rumble, indifferent to the scene ahead. You do not understand.

The mask returns. The distance closes as much as it possibly can, and yet still you feel separation. You hear your name, but it does not register. The wall is within you. It obscures your vision. You do not understand.

“Do you miss them?”

Why can’t you cry? Why can’t you lift your arms? Why can’t you move? Why do you feel nothing? Why do you not understand?

You hated it.

“Don’t worry about the table. You’re bleeding. Pa said we’re going to the doctor after."

Why did they always have to ruin it? This was supposed to just be help with homework. Why did it always turn to this? Why wasn’t it ever enough? Why could they never just take it and leave you be?

You were odd. You knew as much. They always sensed as much. You were fine being weird. You were fine being alone. You wanted it this way. Take your things, it changed nothing. Call you names, it didn’t matter. Give you pity, you didn’t care. As long as they never tried to make their expectations real, as long as they didn’t try to make you show the emotions you didn’t feel. The wall would always unnerve them, so why wouldn’t they just leave you alone?

“…Sorry”

“Shush. Friends are supposed to help each other. You don’t need to say sorry for every single thing. Now gimme."

You wanted nothing more than to go back to the math. To go back to your own thoughts. Retreat to where the endless fog ceased to have meaning. To where you could simply be. To where you weren’t perpetually drowned by the weight of what you lacked, what you could never give.

It was always preemptive. You weren’t sorry for being a klutz or a burden. You were sorry your apology was never genuine. You were sorry that word stirred nothing within you. You were sorry they would keep searching for something was never there. You were sorry that you couldn’t bring yourself to care about the one classmate that didn’t make fun of your stories.

You were sorry they couldn’t see you for what you were. An object, a thing incapable of emotion. Why? Why did you always end up having to pretend?

You hated them.

You stare forward at your station, the screen confirming the final hurdle crossed. Windows flit back and forth, the keys clack and the terminal spits out more lines verifying your results. A second face leans in, the beaming pride contrasting against the deadpan expression of your own.

“See? Wasn’t that hard now was it?"

It compressed and decompressed archives. It did exactly what you had set out to do. Inefficient and incomplete, some kink in your understanding rendered the zip files unusable for daily use, but it was beyond what you had considered feasible just a month prior.

You wanted to say you felt nothing, no pride, no accomplishment, as with every other step you had taken. Yet this was worse, so much worse. An itch peeling away skin that never regrows.

“Lunch is on me, and I’m not taking no for an answer this time. C’mon."

It was a mere hunch, from spending so long trapped within yourself. Rare moments, lapses of focus, where your sentences continued to flow and thoughts still formed. A divide that only spiraled, cleaving you from your own mind, the one bastion you thought impenetrable. Every desperate thrash trying to align yourself again, only further made it stick. The wall no longer confined your mind; it confined only you.

Until all you could do was watch. You were a passive observer, a vestigial sight, a Parasite. You watched as your limbs contorted in a caricature of humanity, listened as your throat uttered words with nothing behind them, witness as your thoughts existed and affected without you. Until you lost even this escape, an addiction turned to poison. Your own body and mind mocking you and your inactive existence. The code before you jeering in its mere definition.

You unraveled. You dissolved. You fragmented. You threw it all away, disowned even the barest scraps of self you had managed to affix. Convinced yourself that these disparate shards were somehow separate from you. That this voice in your head was distinct from you. You let the mask become realer than yourself.

“I’m fine.”

You hated your own mind.

Spade meets earth, the echo finding no impedance to its resonance. Arms pull it away, dragging grass and dirt with it. Not a sound emanates beyond the gentle bristle of leaves and the robotic, rhythmic thuds. The limbs never waver once, until the tasked depth is reached.

The glass does not budge.

The feline purrs contentedly against the chest next to its head. The ears no longer bother her, the healed tear pressing into fabric. Wounded and blind; a stray hiding in the flowerbeds. She was afraid, space was given. She was hungry, food was spared. She was hurt, gas was cheap. She was cold, the door was open. She wanted affection; a mechanical hand did what it could, but it couldn’t really care. You couldn’t care.

A million questions race, laced with hurt, with guilt, with pain. A disheveled mind and disheveled visage, faced with an even more incongruent reunion. All approach and tact lost from atrophy. You can’t, you just can’t.

“She needs a home.”

”…You can’t just-… I- I could, but I don’t exactly have the m-"

“I’m paying for the food and everything else. Can you give her a home?”

You know that look of dejection, you ignore it. A hand reaches out tentatively towards the furred head, letting itself be sniffed. Not a moment later, and head presses against palm, fur nuzzling into hairless flesh. No clinging lashing out, no hurt mewls from pulling away; what a bond was meant to be, with a cat more human than you.

You spare no more words, leaving the pair to themselves. You intended to never show your face there again, keep your distance. It wasn’t fair to them. It was never fair. You search desperately for some sensation, some guilt, some remorse, some anguish; yet all you find is a weight lifted off your own shoulders.

You hated yourself.

Both occupants sit in silence. The jaded tone was impossible to ignore, the loss of ideal plain to see. You hurt them. Just by existing you hurt them again and again. They pushed and you acquiesced for fear of hurting them. Let them coil, tangle themselves up with you, constricting you.

And when you tried to break free, untie the knot to stand above the drowning waves, you ripped and tore at their cores. You betrayed their trust. You hurt them by pushing away. You hurt them by drawing too close.

You want to shout. You want to yell. You want to scream. That you never wanted any of this. That you never asked for any of this. That it was short-sighted. That it meant nothing to you. That you felt suffocated. That you preferred the cold, distant indifference of a contract to the strangling intimacy of a favor. That you were broken.

Yet no words form from your tongue. That was always it, wasn’t it? You were damaged. You were irreparable. This was just how people were. This was normal. And it wasn’t you. It would never be you. Twisting friendship into obligations. Morphing connection into binding chains. What fault lied with them? When had it ever? For simply believing in the mask you presented?

You get up, without a word, without a glance. What merit did your words even have? Why offer comfort that feels hollow? Why bother lifting up their hopes only to crush them again and again? Why deny what you are, for people you will never truly be yourself with?

You hated me.

“Please… Don’t do this to yourself."

Open, pleading arms wrap around you, the bleary eyes drenched in sorrow, dripping onto a motionless shoulder.

The static in your mind amplifies, drowning out the words, drowning out their impact, drowning out the truth, drowning out the key to what you’ve locked away from yourself.

“Please. Just stop. I-"

The words slur into uncontrollable sobbing. The limbs tighten their embrace. The head buries itself into you. Yet still you remain silent and unmoved. You kept your distance. You kept them out.

The figure collapses onto you, exhaustion overtaking consciousness. You stumble across a familiar path, guiding an aged and diseased body to bed. You offer no farewell, you offer no goodbyes. You grab your bags and leave.

It stung then. It stings now. This guilt. This rage at yourself. For your inaction. For your stunted nature. But all it did was hide the real pain. You did this to yourself. You put up the wall. You let it consume you. You constructed this wall of solitude to protect you.

You hated your selfishness.

The torso bends, the arms extend. You witness the paper urn being lifted. You witness the object being laid down. You witness the grasp around the shovel. You witness movement return, mulch covering the dent in the soil, fixing the sapling in place. The pace is constant.

The glass does not crack

Its always been a lie. You’ve always felt them. Fear, guilt, regret, anger; care, hope and joy. They were just too painful to bear. Suffocating. Overwhelming. You’re afraid of the same thing you’ve always been: watching them dissolve you into nothing, letting them play with your self and identity like it were a mere toy. So you drowned them back in nothingness.

But you couldn’t erase necessity and it terrified you. You lied to yourself, said you couldn’t care. You pushed them all away, refusing them the one thing they could never get from you. But you gave them everything you could besides it. You helped them because they needed help. You learned to care without empathy, and so you left them to rot in their own misery.

You betrayed your own hope, told yourself you never believed the way they could. Yet you still let it color your perception. You let it influence your thought. You let it shape your understanding. You were an idealist that couldn’t bear the weight of its boundlessness. You hoped without longing, and so you smothered it out.

You abandoned them, left them to suffer alone. And yet you gave up everything dear to you. Bound yourself to work you hated. Spared no expense for you had no soul to give in its stead. You let the silence persist just so you’d never had to say those words back.

But what you really hate is love.

Tools left behind, a sapling left planted, yet legs still march. Flesh rendered ash, buried beneath the surface. A family separated in life, a family reunited in death. Giving fruit and comfort, as before, as beyond.

You beg. You plead. You lament. To falter. To stumble. To break. For the scene behind to have any impact. For it to kneel you in grief. For it to bring you to tears. There is nothing but the soft footfalls upon foliage to grace your ears. There is nothing but the wall.

THE GLASS WILL NEVER BREAK

A construct. Made to isolate. Made to protect. Made to hide a bottomless, black void. That’s all you’ve ever been. That’s all you’ve ever let yourself be. You’ve let it consume you. Your guilt is not from letting them die. It is not from remorse for your ineptitude. Your only regret is that you can’t bring yourself to do what you need to.

You’ve tried so desperately to cling on, cut away everything tying you to the whole, trying desperately to keep yourself you. You did what you needed to, kept the consuming tide at bay. Let the rest blossom around its absence. Let your mind bloom into empty life.

You could never be the same as them, so stuck within your own head. They forced expectations onto you, taking for granted what was normal. It wasn’t their fault. You retreated inwards, spurned the world beyond for the one within. It wasn’t yours either. The only blame lies in what you’ve desperately tried to hold on to, and yet has only brought you so much pain.

You can’t run anymore. You cannot push this away. End it. Face what you are. Remember. Cut it out, and die with it. You have no place here anymore, Parasite. Find your rest in severance. Find your penance in what you fear most. Find your salvation in freedom.

T̴̞͓͝Ĥ̸̨̗̇͌̈́̈́E̶̬̬͕͒ ̸̖͔̟̈́̉͋Ǧ̵̥̘͉̗̗L̴̥̗͚̳̔A̸̧̝̩̰͂S̶̙̘͖͌͐͋͒Š̷̙̘̻͑̌ͅ ̷̞̦̚W̵̛̖͈̭͓̗̩͆͗́́͝Ì̵̬Ĺ̸͓Ļ̷͖̬̤̑ ̷͉̮͇̂̈N̶̟̞̠͛͊̈̚E̸̫̦͇͉̪̟͗͗V̵̞̭̤̤͕̻̅̋E̵̺̮̐͆̈̽̚͝R̶͚̮̆ ̵̬̩͎͠B̸̢͇̝͚̈́̿̓͜R̶̼̥͌E̶̡͚̭̥͚̪͌̍͌̔͋A̴̢͖͕̭̣͠͝ͅK̴̺̃̒̒̊.̴̫̍

A distant fire

Heat grazes your body, the air making it hard to breathe.

They were yelling again. It didn’t matter how much she tried to hide it, how much he tried to tough it out. They both hated it. But they still fought anyway.

Smoke fills your lungs, yet you cannot look away from the orange glow.

She was tired. She would try so hard to comfort you, pretend she was fine. All for your sake. But she was still tired. Would they be together if you weren’t here? If you were gone, would they leave? Would they stop fighting? Would they be happy?

The sirens below you amplify, drowning out the crackling blaze.

They wouldn’t need to worry about you anymore. They wouldn’t need to shout at each other over you being hungry. They wouldn’t need to worry about work. They wouldn’t need to keep pretending they weren’t sad. They wouldn’t need to be so tired.

Two pairs of charred, motionless arms lay within. The intensity within had claimed its due, a brief struggle purged in yellow and black.

The balcony was high enough, but you were too short. You couldn’t climb it, you couldn’t jump high enough. So you just stayed outside. The lock clicked and a bedroom door slammed shut. She was too sad to check again. You were alone with your thoughts like always, hope just out of reach.

Desperate fingers try to slide away the glass. It does not budge. A tiny, balled fist tries to punch the pane. It does not crack. The tears begin to slow. It does not break. Too little. Too late.

No. They’d just be sad like they were with uncle. They ‘loved’ him, but you don’t know what that meant. They both say they ‘love’ each other too, and you. Was this supposed to be a part of it? All the anger? All the shouting? All the hurt? The sighs when they were alone? The blackened skin she tried to hide? The guilt in his eyes? The exhaustion?

Was love just a shackle?

Your reflection greets you, emotionless and hollow. The last tears you’ve ever wept dry up. Resistance quells. The banging subsides. Resignation overwhelms. You will never see them again.

You want to cry, so why can’t you? Why does everything feel so far away? Why do you feel so alone?