The Lost Souls

The Window

It's cold outside. That's what the window told me. That's what the wind told me when it shook the window. It's what the leaves told me when they shook for the breeze. When they begged me to come inside. They'd die, if they came in. Those little leaves, each filled with its own soul couldn't survive in the warmth, for they'd be ripped apart and their souls would disintegrate.

I tear my lip again; I worry it with my fingers. I check for blood, it's bleeding. I do this often, when I think too hard. I press my finger to my swelling bottom lip, it stings. My fingertip shows me runny blood. And I stare curiously at how blood can fall so fast and then stop instantly. It'll stop weeping soon; it'll become a red splotch on my lip for a little while. It'll scab over, dry fast and then I'll worry it again. Lips heal fast and it becomes routine. A habit, an addiction.

There's a chill from the glass, when I lay my fingers against it. It sends a dotting of goose bumps, shooting up my limb. Leaves fly off their homes, their branches. They stick to my lonely window, wet and soggy because of the rain. They're slick, but the wind is too strong, it dries them up, drags them off and they wither away to the ground. They're far too soaked in moisture to look up at previous homes. They gasp in despair as the rain tears them to shreds. It's a thunderstorm, and I watch, from a warmer place.

It's a quiet evening tonight. Well, inside it is. Outside, it is not. Outside, the wind howls in agony and the branches of oak sway. It's like a dance, of grievance, of mourning. That tree rocks itself till it looks as if it'll also rip out of its roots. The sky dampens me. What can you feel from a charcoal sky? There is no moon, there are no stars. Even the clouds are gone, hiding, drifting off, only the rain which falls in long lines. The storm rattles my door, makes me think someone is trying to get in. You'd be an idiot to brave a storm like this one. The only intruder here is the wind, which seeps into the cracks, which drips into a bucket because the roof is too weak. This rain and this wind won't stop for a while. It won't stop; it feels like it won't stop, this rain. It never slows, never quickens. It steadies its pace so you'll never be sure if it's ready to slow down and give the atmosphere a breath.

The weather around here is always bad. Sometimes I think if I was happier, would the rain go away? Would the sun visit? Maybe our moods determine what kind of day it will be. I haven't seen the sun in a long time, I think I remember a time when I did, but it's been so long that I'm not sure if I dreamed it or if it really did happen.

It rains, almost all the time. When it doesn't, it's muddy. The rain is supposed to wash things away isn't it? It seems to me like it only makes things muddier.

The candle glowers in the thick, dense air. The storm wiped out the electricity. I knew it would, I knew its strength so I left the candles in reach. I'm afraid of the dark. The rain gets harder, like it's trying to break my window. I wonder if it can. The candle shakes from the wind, it'll go out soon. I light another one just in case.

SNAP! Lightning strikes, hard and bright. I jump. I hate the crackle it makes. I hate the sudden attack. I sit back on my bed, steadying my frightened heart. The rain I can do, the lighting is something else.

I should sleep, but will sleep come to me? Will I be able to sleep with this amount of destruction just a window away? I doubt it. The rain is yelling against the glass. "Let me in! Let me in!" It screams. My first candle glimmers quickly like the delicate wings of moth and then like a moth to a flame, it burns out. One glimmer of hope and then it's gone, swallowed up by the shadows of which it conjured. The dark terrifies me. Like how it terrifies most people. Not even Society can keep us safe from the dark, no matter how good it claims to be. Even such a refined system has its cracks and broken seams.

It's time to hide, under the covers and will myself to sleep. The night is too mysterious, that's what makes it scary. Demons come to play at night. They play with your hair and pull it. They eat your hands, finger by finger. They won't let you scream, they swallow them because they thrive on screams. They terrorize you. But when you wake up, you're still alive. That's the torture of a nightmare. You think it's real. They want you to think it's real and you fall for it every night. You beg, you plead, you cry. And they drag it out. But it only lasts for so long. And then, it's over, till the next day. A vicious cycle of torture. It's hard to get out of it.

To me, nightmares are real. They don't end just there when you open your eyes. Why? Because when I wake up, I find that the nightmare is real.

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