Jet Black Heart (Lashton)

Jet Black Heart

It might've been the heavy black ink, and the way it was so casually, yet thoughtfully painted. Or it could've just been the biting London air, and the sudden contrast of temperature in the building. It didn't matter, he decided, because something in him changed. A strange warmth flowed through him, and a small smile played at his lips. It was a strange feeling, to be this content, especially with everything that was going wrong. He inhaled and held it, afraid if he released his air the satisfied feeling would leave him and dissipate as if it never existed. He let out his breath cautiously, staring at the ink for a moment longer, before walking away.

Often times, when the winter storms brewed outside, he lay curled up in the comfort of his apartment, reminiscing about the feeling, trying so hard to grasp it and hold it close once more. Hee never was able to find it, no matter how hard he tried. Happiness never came.

One particularly cold day, when everything was blanketed in white and dainty snowflakes were blowing about, he found himself in the same building, staring at the same picture, savouring the feeling. It started in the pit of his stomach and made him feel something unexplainable all over. He shut his eyes, and held it close, unable to remember a time when he'd felt so ...good. Of course, he didn't remember much, not from his old life anyways.

The day he'd packed up and came to London, he barely remembered. It started on a plane, ended in darkness, then when he'd woken, he was here, alone, upset and barely holding on.

Each passing moment dragged on, it was as if there were a thousand weights holding him down. Yet he made do, his days going by in a haze. He was never acknowledged. Everyone seemed to walk through him, as if he were nothing. He was ignored by everyone and everything. He began to dread socializing, despite never being noticed. So as the days turned into weeks, he stayed in his apartment, never leaving unless he had to.

Purposeless.

That's the way he felt.

Felt.

To feel.

To have emotions.

Using those words was strange, like a bitter, rancid taste from spoiled milk. He didn't feel much. Not anything useful anyways. It was the same emptiness that left him dissatisfied. He wanted something to fill his heart and make him feel complete again. At least, he once wanted it. Now it has become a need, and he was desperate for something- anything to cling onto, to make him whole, and to fill the boundless emptiness that consumed him.

He felt as if his heart was lifeless, a jet black heart, nothing but a pit of emptiness, emotionless.
*****
The warm sunlight cast through the drawn curtains, gold light bathing the cream walls. His eyes fluttered open, and for a single moment, he felt a twinge in his heart, and indication of something, yet it escaped him almost immediately. His head fell back onto the pillow, the same empty, dissatisfaction filling him.

He had no motivation to do anything, and when his alarm went off moments later, he forced himself out of bed with great effort. He went through his routine, the same endless cycle, completing each task with less energy than the previous. The pale bathroom light was incomparable to the radiant sunlight, and caused his head to pound. At least the sunlight had provided a glimmer of hope, a sign of some sort of happiness.

He finished what needed to be done, and dragged himself back into his room, tying each of the curtains back.  The light was brighter now, and it bounced and glittered off of the freshly fallen snow. He lowered himself onto the carpet, a halo of light cast around his curled up figure. Each ragged breath that escaped him evened out, and soon sleep overtook him.

He woke around an hour later, sweaty, flustered, and shaken. Sleep was one thing he could look forward too, as it was mindless and peaceful, except when he was rattled with nightmares.