Deterioration
You never know how long your body will last for. Do you?
At any point, parts of it can stop working. Can decay or rot into nothing despite everything else being in working order. Despite how many times results may return saying that you’re fine and people tell you to just try and exercise more, your body doesn’t accept that. It’ll continue to break apart and you will have to suffer through it.
Perhaps you might try what was suggested to fix you. I certainly did.
It never helped me much. It might have for others, but not for me. It always felt as if it caused me more agony than anything.
Another thing is they just won’t believe that it’s actually going on. Why would they? They don’t experience it. And I’m too young in their mind to experience anything close to this.
Brushing the fingers of my left hand over the flowers smothering the skin against my right wrist. I don’t look towards the mirror. Don’t look to see how it’s spread or where it’s spread to.
I can already feel the dull aches from it. There’s no reason to look.
No one else sees it. No - when I once asked other people about the smell of the dead, the flowers and vines twisting over my limbs, grasping on and making lightning strikes of pain flash over my skin, they had just stared at me. Asked if I was feeling alright.
They couldn’t see it.
For me, this started when I was young. I don’t remember my age, I barely remember the year or what had happened. But I believe that it has been by my side for a while.
That each day, since I was little, my body has fallen apart day by day and I have had to pull it back together with poor stitching just so I can continue to get through the rest of the day as if everything was normal and everything was fine.
Turning towards the window, the curtains pulled away from it, letting the minimal amount of light from outside stream into the room as the sun slowly made its way down and the moon rose for another night. I watch as cars flit by, people walking to one place or another.
Pushing stray strands of hair, I get up, ignoring the knife slices of the vines as they claw into my skin, leaving bite marks as I move.
How would you describe pain?
I believe that I’ve gotten rather good at it over the years. Or… no, good isn’t the right word for it.
I’m not good at describing my pain. Not in the typical way.
Numbers leave things up to interpretation. Descriptors leave too little up to interpretation. It’s difficult. How do you describe something that’s become sort of normal for you? That other people may never understand because they may never experience it?
Somedays, it's different. Most days it feels as if my bones are tearing themselves apart, ripped into nothing, and being stitched back together.
Pulling the front door open, my eyes absently slip towards the mirror, and I have to stop myself from grimacing as I watch the flowers climb up my neck, digging into my throat, as if trying to choke me.
I run my fingers over them, until I reach the skin of my throat and massage it, trying to help with each strike of pain that hits.
It barely works.
Stepping out of the house, I wander around for a while, seeing if there’s anything open - if there’s anything to do.
There isn’t much. A few shops remain, but mostly everything is closed, so I continue going around the place, ignoring the way the vines and flowers prickle against my skin, making my body beg for some sort of rest even after not being out for too long.
It gets pushed to the back of my mind as well as it can with each spear from it that digs into my skin.
It’ll never leave marks.
Turning towards the sky as it slowly falls darker and darker, I wonder what it’ll be like in the morning, once the sun rises once more. The sky will be light and dreamy.
Will the pain still be there? Might it be better or worse? Where might the worst spots be?
What might I actually get done during the day, or will it be one where I’ll have to let the world move on around me and fragment into pieces by myself until I feel better and can pull myself back together once again?
I look away from it, focusing on the path I had been taking. For a second, I pause, turning around and looking at the shops that are a considerable distance away from me.
I consider going back. Looking for anything new. Maybe going back to my house.
I don’t.
Turning back around, I continue to trek away from them, feeling each movement make my body crumble apart.
My phone buzzes.
I check it, continuing onwards, but put it back into my pocket and look ahead after reading through the notification.
Grass slips against my ankles as I move off of the pavement and onto the nearby field. Vines reach down and run their fingers over the grass, petals off of the flowers falling apart and leaving a neat trail behind me.
I pick one off, despite the considerable shock of pain it leaves lingering in its place, and let it fall to the floor behind me as it slips out of my grasp.
The sky above continues to darken and a raven caws somewhere ahead. Wings flutter and one dashes across my vision up ahead, slipping into the dim light from the moon as it falls into place high above.
As I sit on the grassy floor, it feels as if my bones and skin detach themselves, stinging as if an open wound. When I run my fingers over the worst spots, I don’t detect anything out of the ordinary, and rest my hands against my lap.
Sitting at the edge, the rush of wind brushes against my hair as I continue to sit there, the flowers twisting together and pushing against my skin to reach other patches of the bits of skin that’s slowly decaying. Each caress from the air makes me shiver, the chill grasping onto my skin and joining the decay as it digs into my body, until it reaches my bones and it settles there.
I don’t remember falling.
I do remember the pain as the rot decides that it’s had enough of just waiting around and it gnaws against the entirety of my body, pulling and tearing at anything it reaches until there is nothing left for it to take from me.
For me, the morning never comes.