Of The Wretched

There is A Child

There is a child who lies in the meadow. Listening to sounds only she can hear, distracting herself with music only she can know.

Her mind is a battlefield, what is true and what is false. It's loud and rushing and clashing and frantic and harsh and too much.

There is a child in the meadow. Sitting by the lake and swirling her fingers through the water. It's calm, soothing, comforting. A tear slips down her cheek. It's not enough.

She knows she is enough, but everything is just so loud she feels she is drowning. Clawing desperately as she gets swept into the dark depths. It's suffocating. She just wants it to stop. It's too much. She should move. She can't.

There is a child in the meadow, quiet and alone. Trying desperately to block the war in her head. Trying desperately to pull herself free. Trying desperately to feel a little alive.

She reaches up to her earphones. The music is on max, it does little to help. It needs to be louder than the harsh whispers. If she must drown, can't it be something she cherishes?

There is a child in the meadow, weeping softly. Afraid of herself. Afraid of help. Afraid. Terrified. She is frozen and drowning and alone and it is all too much.

She kneels, head pressed to the ground, dirt being flooded with her desperation. Grief etched into every detail of her being. She sobs and sobs and it doesn't stop. It never stops. It never stops.

There is a child in the meadow. Weak and exhausted. Staring up at the stars. It is silent now. Sorrow and peace hang suspended, dancing together through the air.

She wonders if this is how it will always be. Old sorrow and new peace, only after the storm has passed. Stuck in a cycle she does not understand. Stuck in a world she does not understand. Stuck in a life she does not understand.

There is a child in the meadow. Smiling as she catches sight of the fireflies. Lighting the darkness. Bringing hope to join the dance. Bringing life to join.

She feels at peace. Full. She relaxes. It is nice. It is warm. The breeze tickles her face and she giggles. It is good.

There is a child in the meadow, sleeping soundly. Tomorrow the rays of the sun will tickle her face, lighting up with her delighted laughter.

Tonight she sleeps. Her peace, sorrow, hope, and life dancing in the moonlight. And her grief? Well, that will have to stay between her and the meadow.