Sweet nothings

(A little short)

Dear diary, 10th of January

Every secret comes to light. Somehow. Somewhere.

Or so I thought. because my situation never failed to confound me.

And piss me the fuck off.

Streams of tinted vivid grey glare through the cotton of clouds which part for the sight.

It’s cold out.

The once gentle breeze now a fierce tug among the barren trees. Ice scarred across the window of my room lined with thick bars of metal.

I trace gentle circles on the worn stone tiles of the floor.

There was a mirror outside of this room where I would walk by it twice every day.

That was until everyone fled. Leaving me here, all lonesome and shit.

There was no one here to keep watch constantly, as there was.

No food brought either. No water.

Now instead, I woke up to pitch black with a stream of grey spilling from the high up window.

I couldn’t eat anyway. Nor sleep.

It made no difference if there had been someone to bring me rotten food. I wouldn’t eat it. I don’t trust it.

It was the eerie emptiness which had shook me. It seemed so much more dead.

Not as if it was ever lively.

The only lively thing there was in this hellhole was the hurt.

The hurt that stung.

The hurt you watched that turned ever so gradually into violent rage and bloody streaks on cheeks.

And slowly, I watched as every person died. In and out.

It was like a sick sort of entertainment.

Watching all the newcomers with the rage and anguish I once had.

The hope and confusion that once lit my belief.

The belief that it would get better.

That I wouldn’t die in this cell. That they would see I hadn’t done it.

That it was all wrong.

That this whole thing was all insane.

I didn’t do it.

I didn’t do it.

Because i’m not insane.

It’s this place.

It’s... it makes you go insane.

It waves freedom in front of your face only to deny it.

With their fucking fingers jabbing and pointing, fisting.

Their lips twisting into snarls of vile revulsion.

Like I was repulsive. For an act I hadn’t committed.

And their grip on our chains tightening in threat.

As if we were monsters.

I didn’t do it.

I watched as the light in their eyes fade, their skin pales to a dead grey, their eyes darken, and their breaths become harsh and weighing.

Until their brain is spilling out their ears and their blood seeps across the brick floors littered with illness, and all there was to hold them together was their nimble slabs of bone, a corpse with eyes forced open.

Until their eyes dried up and there was nothing left.

Not a thought through their sunken brain, half draped in herbal teas which never worked.

I watched. Sat and watched like it was my entertainment.

I know how it feels.

It’s like I’m drowning, with pools of waves rushing into my lungs, backgrounded with the beats of my heart slowing into a thrum of dread.

It weirdly feels like claustrophobia, a ravenous want to escape your own skin.

Like I’m floating on water and my blood’s seeping into the crystal blue of the waters which I once loved so dearly and my attempts at reaching shore will be forever futile, foraging an unattainable goal.

And the water expects some sort of thanks.

Well thanks a fucking lot.

Because I didn’t do it.

Not a stain of red on my over frozen fingers.

I couldn’t get clean of it even if I did.

The soap picks at the flesh, as if its purpose were to rip elastic off of brittle bones I couldn’t feel anymore.

Yet it doesn’t clean. Not well at least.

But Im supposed to be the lucky one.

The one who didn’t get carried away to die. But left here to rot and unable to rid myself.

If only they could understand I didn't do it.

I didn't.

Or... I didn't mean to.

Maybe it was my secret to keep.

That I hadn’t even touched her.

And some... thing, something I couldn’t see, a physical force, shoved her.

At no means did I like the girl. She was a pain. But I wouldn’t kill her.

I wasn’t a murderer.