Beautiful Tragedies

Three + The Ones We Can't Help But Let Fail

Three + The Ones We Can't Help But Let Fail.

      I try to fight it, as soon as I feel the first tug back, but I never was the best at fighting.

     I find it a morbid sport, fighting, taking joy in injuring others, and a painful one. I've always feared the punches, and the pain that is sure to follow. But, even when I did find myself hit, I would never fight back, I just let them knock me down, one after the other. Maybe, that was my problem.

     It begins slowly, an awakening feeling blooming out through my body, running rapid as it tries to alert my body to its senses.

     "Stop," I want to whisper. "Please, don't." But the words can't leave my mouth — they won't leave my mouth. I'm still in the darkness and now I have a heartbeat. A sickening thump against my chest wall that makes my stomach twist.

     "No," I want to whimper. "Let me be dead. Please, just Let. Me. Be. Dead."

     But now, it's too late. Everything has become alerted. I feel it like vines of roses and thrones, twisting, prickling, and growing against my skin — my nerves as they reach forward to pull me back.

     There's light in my vision which had previously been cool darkness, I wish there wasn't. I want to tear at my eyelids and made the light retreat, but it gets brighter and brighter by the second, until, finally, it's all I see. A blinding white.

     And then, I stuck in a breath of air. And everything reverts.

     ...

     It's comical really when you think about it; Felicity Webb the girl who failed at everything — including, but not limited to — dying.

     I open my eyes, my red stained, glassy eyes, and I'm back. Back in the world, I wanted to be free from.

     Why couldn't I just be free?

      A picture of chaos greets my vision, an eerie picture of chaos. What once was two cars is now a heap of twisted metal, scraped of their blue and red paint laying like carnage against the road.

     Glass lays amongst the wreckage as frequent and as fine as shells that litter a beach. There is no escaping the devastation I have caused now that I'm met with it.

     Everything is silent, so very silent, except for the continuing blare of a car horn that rings out through the quiet of the night, echoing up the streets and bouncing off of alleyways.

     As my eyes scan the scene, drinking in the nightmare of an atmosphere I have caused, it starts to rain.

     The small shower of water sparkles like glitter under the light of the lampposts that line, what was, a sleeping street. Everything the rain touches soon reflects light, it brings a glow to the wreckage. An un-needed highlight.

     Everything seems to be moving in slow motion, but really nothing is happening. The rain falls softly, the car horn continues to sound, there is no movement except my own.

     I bring a hand to touch my trembling lips, and that's when I notice it. The blood. It streaks down my face, a dark mix of liquid Crimson and rain, matted against the blond of my hair.

     I pull my shaking hands back and feel the fear embed deep into my chest.

     What have I done? Oh God — what have I done?

     And then, I hear the scream.

     It cuts through the air like a fine knife thrown. Slicing through the silence, the scream echoes up the streets and burns into my brain - an instant file under memories. The noise sends shivers down my spine, my gut pooling with a sudden flood of dread. I feel my eyes well over and before the noise stops, I'm running towards it.