500 Words

,,You’re disaster,” something once says. ,,Something wrong. Aren’t you?”
And she has no idea how to answer that, is only rendered speechless as she slowly steps around, trail leaving behind something alike to naught.
,,Why won’t you answer?”, it pushes and she steps back, eyes blank and mouth empty. She’s forgotten how to form words.
Then a laugh. An utterly despicable thing that makes her gut curl and chest tightens. She gasps.
,,But how could I expect that of you. You are, after all-“
,,So wrong.”


3. Day Two

,,Am I wrong for holding on to something?”, she asks one day down to the blank lines before her, the paper as quiet as always. Her stomach feels weird again. Her chest curls that uncomfortable way it does whenever she’s wrong in this world.

She didn’t want to be wrong today. She hadn’t predicted it either. It’s a soft blow at first, so soft she barely registers, and before another mouthful breath is available, it hits her.
Square right in the chest, something vulnerable and something unprotected, something that leaves her wanting to curl up against the floor and silently
She doesn’t, however. Stuff like that aren’t things that happen in this world – and if it does, the likelihood of it being made fun of is so great, that anything else seem impossible.
Not that she minds – crying in front of people has never really been her thing, but letting go could be


Without wanting to sound depressing, nice things, at many times, seems so very far. She walks very silently, but her movements are anything but silent – every step a scream, every move of fingers a yell and the hand that runs through her hair a soundless screech.
So of course
Due to the soundless part of it
Nobody hears.
Maybe she doesn’t either. She doesn’t think so – what she does hear, however, are the ocean. ,,What a funny thing,” she doesn’t say but think, fingers itching for reaching out and break the blank surface.
How can something so peaceful be at life with the way things move in her head?
She feels the pull
The pull for stepping out of trousers and layers of blouses
Of feeling nothing but cold air against bare skin
As movement after movement fights against the peace before her, body slowly dissolving between the droplets, becoming something higher and safer
,,But that’s probably all just an illusion too,” she whispers lightly, paper, as always, not responding.


,,I want to figure out how to breathe again. I want to do it again,” she ends the paper with, pen staying in her hand and not leaving
As all those other things does.
,,Properly, even,” she adds with a weak smile, something that brightens up something dark within her. ,,Maybe, one day, I’ll even be able to talk surely.”
Whatever that day comes or not, she doesn’t await it. She reaches out and demands it, take it between broken bones and fingers and hold it there.
It is a far thing from perfect – most of hers is. But to her, it is something right – something fitting, something that doesn’t left her with those hollow feelings that things usually did.
She isn’t home just yet; that thing is so far, that just touching the thought of it made her shiver.
,,I’m not quite okay today. Maybe not tomorrow either. I don’t know what I did to step wrong yet again, but..”, something akin to a laugh leaves chapped lips.
,,I’d like for it to straighten up, somehow.”

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