Clinging. Clinging to the tearing fabric, watching the strands unravel one by one. . Clinging to the hope that I'll not fall into the darkness below me. Any abyss. I dig my blunt nails into the cloth frantically, praying it'll hold, praying it'll save what's left of me, if there's anything left to save. To be honest, I can't be so sure anymore.

Am I wrong for fighting to save that which I love? Is anyone wrong for holding on to their beliefs? To something that matters? That's the question that plagues me. Plagues and assails me, demanding increasing amounts of my decreasing sanity. But then again, what is sanity?

What is life?

I twitch nervously, spasm violently, shaken by the relentless ghosts inside. I need something to calm me. Walking downstairs, it feels like every step is one down into that which I try to avoid… But it's futile, isn't it? I mean, I can see already that the cloth is too torn for anyone normal to bother saving. How fun that it's a reflection of everything inside. So why do I try anymore?

I can't move… can't walk… cant breathe. I tumble down, fall onto the floor, trapped. They ravage me, tear me apart, mercilessly.

You said it couldn't happen; that there was nothing to be afraid of… Look at me now. I'm terrified something will happen. Terrified of what has already happened. Did you lie to me? Please tell me you didn't…

"Maybe she did."

No. NO. It can't be. It… It isn't.

My breathing constricts. I need to run away. Hide somewhere where noone will get me. I need solitude.

I need look no further than the emptiness inside.

I claw my way to the kitchen, searching for an elixir for my pain. I've been searching for so many things; something to bandage the holes inside, but the gauze refuses to hold; falls to the floor, dejected. Depressed.


Alone like me. And the hole inside me still lies unfilled. It's not the same. Somehow I can't help but feel it'll never be the same. Not with the hole she's left…

The aura isn't there anymore; that little light shining defiantly, calling for companionship. There is only the crowd, milling, pushing, thrusting against one another, without the uniqueness of what we had. Just filled emptiness, and a filled nothingness. And now you cast a dark pall on me; everything I do, driving me from the joy I could have and filling it with pain. Pain and uncertainty...

I thought I asked you not to hurt me; asked you to treat me… Tenderly. I opened up to you, hoped you'd see it. Hoped you'd have realised the damage you could so easily do.

I… I think you did see, yet decided latently to attack me anyways. Why?

"I didn't. You only think I did."

Then what did I do to you? Why do you have such a hold on me?

"Because you want me to…"

Just leave me in peace… Please.

An evil laugh. "Deep inside, you know you don't want me to. I'm just doing what you want me to do… That's all…"

The revelation shakes something deep inside me, but yet I refuse to believe it. Nothing matters anymore… Nothing except what is slipping away. The accolades I lust for, the recognition I seek… I know it will be futile if it comes, so I repeat the question. What is the point? I know the coffee I drink will only keep me up; allow the ghosts to get to me; invade my broken peace. But then again, there is no such thing as peace, is there? Only a momentary absence of visible fighting… In essence, life is a war, and life is hell. It always has been, and it always will be…

The tears now flow down their long-antiquated rivulets, acrid in their concentration, pure and honest. A poor expression of the desolation I feel, their water is parched, superficial, void of all life. They blind me, obscuring my vision. Not that it makes a difference. Eyes cannot see the desolation in my heart. They never will, so they may as well be useless. They… They will be, soon.

You know the funny thing? The fabric's purple. Why that matters, I don't know. I don't know anything anymore. Except one thing.

Blood. Now, the thought and it's pervading scarlet image fill me… In my obscurity, I recognise the primal need to bleed. I need to see the blood she saw… The blood she took from me.

The glass falls lightly from my hand and splinters, spreading shards and droplets of oversweet coffee onto the floor. But it's a lie; all of it. No amount of sweetener will ever dull the harshness away… And no glass is ever perfect. It's beautiful, but mortally so. There is a flaw in every piece; it can be broken, dashed on the rocks of anyone's choosing. Doomed to a mortality marked by pain and futility.

We are that glass.

Despite this, the jagged blue edge shines radiantly, looking for something to cut. Something to ravage and destroy, as it has been ravaged and destroyed. I sense it calling me, looking for unity, solidarity.

A kindred spirit.

I lift it to my wrist and pull downwards, watching the blood spurt out and stain the tiled floor, prepared, relishing, even, the opportunity to heed it's plea and find someone like me, find acceptance, maybe even forgiveness.

Oh, by the way, isn't that ironic; the tiles are white and black… Not anymore. I lower my wrist and leave the blood to spill on the white tiles… That will be a better reflection of the situation. Any situation, in fact.

It seeps and spreads, falling through the cracks and washing away the grime, replacing it with nothing. A sterile emptiness.

There is no pain. My mind blanks out the impulses telling me to stop. The nerves in my body die slowly and their message of distress is never received. Nothing matters except the crimson spilling onto the floor; my spirit slowly, inexorably departing with it.

Finally, the cloth frays apart, all last hopes for hope itself snuffed out.

Finally, I fall, consumed in the darkness.

They say you never know the value of something until you lose it… How true that is.

They say you never know the value of something until you lose it… How true that is.

A/N: Just something I put together. What do you think?