The Drifting

The twilight sky tired her. God, she just wanted to be rid of it all. That wasn’t too big of a request, was it? She wanted to be rid of this calamity of herself. She traced a stubby, thick-skinned finger across her lip as if in thought. But she was devoid of it—her thoughts were so shallow that they could not even be labeled “thoughts.” They were worries: normal, everyday schoolgirl worries. She should have been bothered by the fact that she was normal. She hated normality. Then sometimes, during her quietest moments, she would yearn for it—the normality that everyone else was able to convey.

Her phone was empty, and yet, she didn’t feel that lonely. She hated being tossed and turned in a sea of people she didn’t know. The multiple voices caved into her. She needed to be with someone she knew as a sort of buoy against the tide of unknown lives—a familiarity in a wave of change. She couldn’t take stock of everyone’s emotions and personal agendas when there were so many to think about. It was like a thousand different tasks. But if she had someone she knew, someone she could concentrate her attention on, it almost masked the sea into a calm washing. It was her and  the object of her attention against the world of unknown. To think, in protection against humans, she used other humans. The irony did not escape her.

But if there was no one around, she was okay being alone. Her phone was empty, yes, but it was okay. She could dream and pine and yearn the night away from the comfort of her bed. And she wasn’t lonely, not with the innumerable stuffed animals and fluffy blankets in a childish fortress around her.

And it was okay. She was okay. Her empty phone was okay. Her stuffed animals were okay. The clock was okay. The fluffy blanket was okay. The curtain was okay. The picture was okay. Her loneliness was okay.

But, suddenly, it wasn’t. Her empty phone was silent—too silent. Her stuffed animals all had artificial grins plastered on their sightless faces. The clock’s minute-hand continually ticked but never moved. The fluffy blanket she sat on was suffocating because of her. The curtain was blocking the only light she could notice. The picture on the wall was a fake representation—something from the past, but she changed and the picture no longer applied to her. Her loneliness was a cry of or for—she couldn’t tell—help.

The twilit sky soon faded into a dark oblivion. She rose, the specter from the dust of her remains, and walked to the window as if she were a girl playing specter playing queen. No moon lit the window, yet she still looked up in hope for there were stars. There were always stars.

The burning pieces of distant light burned her eyes when she didn’t blink for a minute. She was afraid to close those eyes, to let the eyelids fall as a dark curtain upon her consciousness. The stars could fade in that moment when she blinked.

They didn’t. The stars didn’t fade. She felt lulled into a semi-sleep-semi-awake state when they didn’t leave after a few blinks. Those few blinks felt like forever, and if those stars stayed for forever she had a constant and if she had a constant then everything was okay.

With that thought, she succumbed to the state known as sleep and let her mind drift past the empty phone, the stuffed animals, the fluffy blanket,  the clock, the picture. It drifted past the moonless sky and burning stars and into the constant night.

2 thoughts on “The Drifting

  1. That was beautiful. And kinda sad at the same time. I loved it though! 🙂 Love you Arctic dear! If you ever really feel that way, you know I’m always here right?

    • You’re beautiful. But not sad at the same time 😉 And I love you in a platonic way!
      And, that’s silly. I don’t feel that way–it’s the character who feels that way. I am the byproduct of my writing.

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