A dark room, with the faintest gleam of light streaming through the overhead dirty-glassed window. So feeble, it almost looks like it is mourning its own advent. The room reeked of a life gone wrong, an existence gone sour. A musky, heavy smell, which makes you want to crumble onto the floor, a humongous pile of fear and regret and dry tears.
And in one desolate corner of the room, a dead mortal. An unkempt soul, with her knees huddled close to her chest, her hands moving in sleek precision, her eyes wincing with every small movement her bony hands made. Her mute demeanor screamed of unending pain; a scream heard only by those who've suffered an agony of the same degree, if not higher.
The sun shifted in the sky. So did the light streaming in. But as soon as it touched her bare, mucked feet, she scampered deeper into the fort of sorrows she had built all around herself, as if the sunlight was scathing her. A feeble entity, she.
Her being shivered with uncertainty, anguish and a lack of will to live. Her scantily clad frame punished for daring to exist, she didn't bother to cover it up. It was like she basked in the moroseness of her life.
Her hands started moving all the more furiously. As if she couldn't wait to hurt herself more and more. As if the scabs from the previous deliberate injuries just weren't enough. As if the puddle of blood surrounding her wrist was not enough to be taken into consideration. As if running the blade over the gashes repeatedly would take her hopelessness away in SOME twisted way. Make her feel less betrayed by her own self, make the pain go away, make her feel a bit more alive..