The last man on earth sits alone in his car...
ZealHer feet leave no prints on the dew covered ground.
Her hand gently beckons, she whispers your name -
But those who go with her are never the same."
-Lost Soul
VERSION 2
Wearing my denim work shirt insulated me from the cold, if only a little. My eyes traced invisible lines between water droplets on the window. I had never been good with bad days, days in which everything seemed to push down on me. I imagined myself as an ant, and the forces pushing on me were personified ever so slightly as a giant finger slowly crushing me to the ground. As the ant I pushed against the finger, offering as much resistance as I could. It was toying with me. I grew frustrated with this image and, in turn, it gave the finger renewed strength.
I watched her mouth move as she formed words of rebuke and fear. Her mouth amused me, it seemed to dangle from her face as though it was a separate entity no longer recieving messages from her brain. It stopped moving. I figured a response was what she was looking for: "It'll be okay. This isn't the worst thing that's ever happened. Just go home and everything will be fine."
Cars rolled past on the road in front of me, their lights refracting on the droplets made me think of old science fiction movies with swords of light and... Her mouth was dangling again.
The phone in my hand felt like deadweight. The voice I had wanted to hear was somewhere far away.
The last man on earth sat alone in his car.
There was a knock on the window.
His peace was like bits of broken glass, never to be whole again.
Dangling. I hated her mouth. I hated her bug-like eyes, like twin white and black beetles nestled into her face. I wanted to throw my phone at her and drive her away...
I wanted to flay her skin from her flesh and then her flesh from her bones and then maybe she'll understand the depth of my anger.
... maybe.
...
I think sometimes no matter what other people say to try and make you feel better it's just a bandaid on an infected wound. It's not their fault.
...
...
"It's always about you."
It's never good when someone on the outside echoes what you say on the inside. It hurts, actually.
"It's always about you."
.It's always about me.
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