I took a long walk one Sunday night.
Down an alleyway illuminated only by the fog reflecting the Moon. The buildings were old and my heart was broken. My hands were shaking and my scarf was strangling.
I didn’t want to tear, out of fear that the cold streams would freeze and turn to daggers on my face.
A tortured and tormented soul is what those who passed by saw. They went on their merry way, I struggled down my pain-strewn path.
My breathing became sharp. A repetitive jab from an elbow to my chest. My balance was slipping and my mind deteriorating. Wasting away like a rotten vegetable, I was too deformed to even glance briefly at.
I stumbled on as I grabbed for the cold concrete building sides. I gripped and I scratched but no wall could hold the weight that I bore.
I slammed my body against a window sill and slid to the cigarette butt coated ground.
The night had taken my will. It had raped my strength from me. I wanted no more but to be done. I wanted those bricks to fall. I wanted my exterior to feel the dulling pain and claustrophobia that consumed my very essence.
Why wouldn’t it just claim my life then and there? There was no one left to surround so why not steal me now. No witnesses. Why couldn’t I be my own bystander?
My purpose was lost. I could have cried but what sympathy would that have secured? I rolled up my sleeves and looked at my scars in the most inquisitive way. My consolation prize is this, I thought to myself.
I ran each finger over my whole self. My total form. My complete imperfection. This was all I would ever amount to. I so often saw someone else in my clothing. That night, though, I saw my real self. No perception other than the truth.
I could no longer go on looking at myself through the eyes of another. Truth was not subjective to me. Reality was revealed as a pitiful semblance of truth.
My image was not beautiful or restoring. It just was. It wasn’t perverted. It wasn’t skewed. It just was.
A new question sat in my lap like a child craving protection.
Where do I go now?