Chapter 1
Pain; a curious thing. A reaction to a traumatizing event. Opposite pleasure, oftentimes the same thing; hysteria.
Pain. Such a beautiful thing; twisting and writhing, and you mourn the memory of gladness; despair.
Pain, something for you to crave. A mudslide that you relish and dig in deep, where you feel like you’ll never get out of- that you’ll never want to get out of. Such beautiful things come from pain, begging and screaming and crying for it to stopstopstop but would never give it up for anything because it’s better than feeling nothing and reminds you that you’re alive in all of the dark beauty that is your soul.
Hope. It is odd at first; something that is foreign and strange, and you’re not entirely sure that it is good, but vaguely identifiable all the same. But with hope comes the memories of a better time and place; where such things were commonplace, and the pain comes again - comforting in its familiar slow burn; exquisite.
Nothingness. It is odd, to have no feelings. The mind seems stark without them. The pain doesn’t come as easily nowadays, and the physical kind is different. It lasts longer, but if it cannot always be fresh (the smooth sweet feeling of ribbon razorblade sliding under your skin and silkily drawing the beloved red substance that tastes sweet and is such a pleasure to pull, almost as good and oh so close to the pain), then it should not be inflicted.
Emptiness. It is not as familiar as nothingness, but close enough not to make too much distinction. But the thought seems to rattle around; echoing through your hollow shell. So you think so much it hurts, let the subconscious thoughts run through your brain at full speed, hardly comprehending them before they’re gone; barely slowing them down.
Wilting. You read something sad, so sad. The pain should cut deep, but it doesn’t. You want to cry, you should cry, but the tears won’t come. Have they been all cried out? You long for the feeling of salt on your skin as the tear tracks dry. Why can’t you cry? You want to cry.
Laughter. It comes slowly at first, only at the lewdest and wryest of jokes. Short bursts of sound that you don’t really feel. It’s more like hysterics, really. But it comes.
The emptiness comes longer, nowadays. Or rather, Nothingness. Only the Nothingness to keep yourself entertained, and you know what it feels to be a full Vulcan. They don’t notice anything; they never do- Excuses mixed with acting are all that’s necessary.
Music. Music is what fills your brain now, so that none of the darkness comes; none of the Emptiness or the Nothingness. But the pain still lingers, deep and behind barriers, oh, so many barriers. You can’t really feel the pain anymore, so instead you listen to music, and hope that you will feel once again… This lasts a while.
It is a crutch. You laugh; you smile; you walk and fly and feel free. You worry and despair, too. But stress comes on your shallow, shallow, fragile existence. The emptiness comes up again; wry, morbid humor the only thing to twist your lips into a cruel, ever so cruel smile. They never notice, as usual. Always as usual. But instead, you fade away. Your faint, fledgling hope dies, and your faint, painted on emotions fade in the harsh heat of summer. You still do the things you enjoyed, but it no longer brings you joy like it used to- what small measure you felt in the first place.
Obsession fills your days now. Sick, macabre obsession with all things termed as ‘dark’ and ‘evil.’ You make your own judgements, keeping what you have learned of shades of grey in mind, and find that you rather like it. The cruel, mocking humor; the always-looming ill-fated end rushing on them; unstoppable. You laugh at their misfortune as you always have, and find that recognition of your own darker side of nature leaves you feeling.
But it is small, and when you must return to the world which you live in, sterile apathy and the simple masquerade mask that you must wear comes back on; plastered on like a clown’s makeup. Every now and then, the old thoughts of escaping come to life. Escaping the boredom and the worry; even if only briefly overtaken by wonder of the novel in life. But those thoughts end as they always have- wait. The apathy comes back to the forefront, since you cannot feel the pain anymore.
But you would do almost anything for it to come back. It let you know you were human, with the ability to feel. These days, you doubt that you are, and your true appearance doesn’t help the doubting in the line of thought. Desperation comes back to haunt you like an old curse; floating up at odd, random, inopportune moments. If to bear emotions is the criteria for being human, then… you don’t qualify.
And a laughing voice echoes in your head, repeating in rows of off-balanced harmonies, singing that you always knew, you always knew, you always knew, you always knew, you always knew. And you are not completely, obsessively bothered by that mocking voice. You wonder, but it is idly - dispassionately, as all things that you say, do, or think these days are.
And one day, you look at yourself in the mirror, and you see something. Your eyes-
My eyes. My eyes, and their ever-loved blue-green-grey color have faded.
And there is no hope, or even spark of life.
My eyes… are dead.
And I am only mildly perturbed.
