The room around her is bleak, and drab, holding no interest. The walls and their undiluted, muted, dark color has seeped their way into her soul until she feels as if her spirit itself is only being kept alive by the complete grayness it now contains. Because anything that is composed of that much of one substance has to be alive, or die, and she could not be allowed to die. Death, for her, would be a release of sorts, and she knows that no release is forthcoming.
Her eyes, if one were to choose to look at them, are, in fact, a reflection of the bleakness of her soul. Not that there is anyone here to look, or, rather, anyone here that cares to. The ones that would have noticed are long gone, separated by distances too great to cross. And she's unaware of how that happened, uncomprehending of what it is that's brought her here, to this place.
And here, in this place, there is no one at all that cares enough to look into those dull eyes. No one to notice that the once bright of the blue grey of her eyes, the thing that separated her from others, that marked their uniqueness is gone. The color now just serves as a depiction of the dull color that pulses in her shattered spirit.
At this moment, those eyes simply stare sightless out the windows. Windows which, aside from her locked door, are at this moment her only portal too the outside world that has forgotten her. To others, the windows would be a way to cross into the world on the other side. For her, the windows are simply another torture. They are a sliver of a glimpse into a normalcy that she is no longer a part of. They only serve to remind her of what she no longer has. The sliver of blue sky she can see through them is a color blue that is no longer applicable in her life.
She sits and contemplates for the hundredth, the thousandth, the millionth time, what she has done to obtain this life, this solitude. For she had to have done something. Nobody ever receives this kind of punishment without deserving it. No on is this succinctly cut off from all of those of import to them without committing some atrocity. She'd like to know what she's done. She'd like to have had a sentencing. She'd have liked to have had her judge and jury stand up, read the verdict, and tell her what crime she had committed to be deserving of such a payment. But no. For her, it was straight to the punishment. For her, the not knowing is very possibly the worst part, far worse then the rest of the punishment. For is she doesn't know what mistake it was that she made, however will she be able to avoid repeating it?
The alarm bells ring and they are the only kind of ringing that she hears nowadays. The ringing of the telephone is something from her past.
She reaches over, her hand catching up the clock to both silence the noise, and look at the numbers.
She can put it off no more. It is time. She rises from the mattress, puts on her uniform, and opens the locked bedroom door of her apartment. She needs to start towards her office. It is time to face another friendless day in her now friendless existence.
If only she knew her crime. It's all she asks now. All she feels she has a right to. And it's such a little thing. But to her, it's the world. Because without that knowledge, she only feels doomed to keep repeating this process until the end finally gives her peace.
It's a lot like what that other person wrote, and I thank that person I do not know but through thinest of threads for inspiring this piece as a whole. Her piece made me realize how jailed I've felt in my experiences lately, and I wanted to write something, anything, to get some of the pain out.Take it however you want. You always do anyways.
Posted by Arieanna at 2:39 PM
