They came again, with their tangled hair and malevolent whispers. Hovering over me like angels. Angels of death.
I thought for sure it would happen. That tonight was the night. But I find myself living, breathing, still wretched me for another day. There are times when I wish, I hope, that if my own past doesn’t end me, maybe the present will. I dream the coverlets of yet another hotel bed will entangle me and drown me in their stifling embrace. I hope for the melancholy drizzle to turn to a lashing rainfall, the droplets hitting me back like the strokes of a whip, the blood washing away all my sorrow, all my pain.
I wish I were dead.
They say that God’s tears fall as rain. Why is He crying? Is something wrong? Is it possible that finally, after thirty weary years, the Almighty has heeded my prayers?
But no. If He truly had heard me, this wretched body would be ashes and I would be the Devil’s spawn. Red light and fire would fill my days, and ashes would fill my nights.
Anything’s better than this hell.