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The rhythm can't be pondered. This is what she realized in her cuddled heap of clothes that left a sole hand uncovered, raw and exposed to the frantic chill she feared might one day consume her. The ceiling was there. The walls were there. Only one window, so why so cold? It whittled away at her, hair, skin, brain, and her once almost complete -but not quite- soul. Listening to her heart beat, she tried to wonder what could make it pulsate in her chest, pumping to her neck and stomach, in her last desperate bid to keep things together. No, I won't think of it anymore. She thought, and then disobeyed her own rule. Could I change this? The way this beats? Skip a beat, slow down, speed up? If I could do that maybe I could get up. Maybe I could feel the warmth of the sun and not feel the stab of insignificance. I can change this. I know I can. There must be something more. Just more. The thing was, she had felt this before. It was all repeated, her thoughts identical to the ones had in past days. The cyclic actions of her repeated day were predictable; she had come to frighten herself with how she knew what an hour would bring. Where was the joy? Where was the excitement that had been promised at birth, if she just worked a little harder, did a little better; a magic spell would generate a blissful state to protect her. So she persevered. She “hung in there”. Was survival really what it was all about? After her long days of going through the motions of her eggshell life, she would lie down, curled and thinking. Please help me. I promise I will be the best, do everything I can. Give me something. Anything. She was not praying to a god, but saying the things she could not say,
she had succeeded. She was cold. . She could not be stopped. her solitary window. so cold that she was sure her skin would shatter due to its icy coating. but those around her noticed her changes. she unknowingly was unraveling her body and spirit from the inside out. It wasn’t until she saw a form under the clothes she realized what had changed. No. and every day she woke up. like the thoughts that could not be stopped. lying encased in walls of wood. but something was altered. It all led back to her room. and soon it was etched into her brain as pale and ghostly permanent as scar tissue. This is what it takes to make me happy. Little did she know these actions were killing her. After months. She rose. She had disappeared. It was not better. She could not see it. her lungs. it’s not all right as it is. It was this that led to her. Every night this came to pass. in her efforts to make herself whole. but in a different way than she had before. years of consistent effort. under masses of cloth to keep her warm. That moment of time changed. She inhaled. the clothes. only able to rise in the hope that her mind and world would alter. She closed her eyes. Please I know life can be all right if I just change. she finally understood what she had done. Unable to place what had taken place. either externally or internally. The walls. Bit by bit she faded. She exhaled. So somehow. With her familiar chill returning. keep safe. so something’s wrong. she went on. She continued her routine in much the same way as always. Surely but slowly. which hurt. feeling her ribs contract. so that pieces of broken glass scraped her throat. Her efforts never ceased. She told herself this.the things that terrified her in her hollowness. she retraced her steps. This will make it all better. more fluid. I’m wrong. This will make me better. and when she awoke a light shone. Lighter. but not worse.