The tale of the lonely girl was, indeed, a lonely tale. A dark room, shadow figures, hollow eyes, and empty souls: the norm was staggering in this respect. Hiding under blankets, the monster in the closet, or was it human? No, no monster, it was just she.
The closet was safe. A safe, safe place, hidden from view, a windbreaker, without probing eyes and guttural words, without hollow souls, only hers, it was a perfect place. So tiny, it was, a tiny, tiny, cramped little closet with space enough for a few hangers for shirts and maybe a pair or two of shoes, should the shoes be small enough. Her shoulders often stuck themselves there, and she assumed she would find it hard to leave, should the occasion arise in which she wished to leave. However, it just never seemed to.
But the room was dark. But shadows were dark. What was the difference? If a shadow was dark, and dark was dark, then all dark was shadows, and all shadows were dark, so how could she differentiate the malignant from benign? Which was merely dark, and which were the shadows? The shadows sneered. They blinked, they talked, they laughed, and screeched and screamed and poked and prodded and everything bad in the world was rolled into one ball to define a shadow.
She screamed out silence and cried dried wells of tears, and her tiny closet tightened on her shoulders. Her breath disappeared, and she choked on the jibes, the teases, the killing intent hidden behind the veil of innocent fun. Her shoulders were crushed. Her bones cracked. She screamed, she pleaded, she cried, all in her alien voice, but the shadows remained unwavering in their blight.
She was engulfed. The shadows tore her limb from limb, until she lay broken and decaying in a heap in the closet, her limbs all fitting nicely after being dismantled and vertically stacked. The shadows laughed, they snickered and howled in delight, with parading harrumphs and cheers and passed drinks. They partied in way that only a shadow would know to party.
Her dry tears rolled once more, the dust creating dirty streaks on her face. She screamed for help, until her throat was raw and her soundless screams settled into even deeper nonexistence. Then she quieted. There was no point. The shadows didn’t care. The shadows fed on her; this despair was their livelihood. She blinked slowly. There was nothing to do. She could do nothing. For once, she could see outside of the closet: immense blackness, certainly, that contained both dark and shadow, but also something else. A muddled gray? Dark gray? Light gray? She couldn’t tell. Her vision was blurred with her non-tears.
The not-quite-light, not-quite-shadow came closer, its hand extending to an impossible length. Her mouth opened, but for once, the silence emitted wasn’t for lack of hearing, but rather, for lack of being able to create noise. She was seen! She was heard! The hand touched her forehead; it grabbed her hand, and pulled her out of the closet. Her limbs trailed out behind her, sticking together they way limbs and torso should, and she was whole again. Tears flowed, and she sobbed noisily, her cheeks immediately wetted from the salty reality pouring from her eyes. The fact that her tears existed, that her voice was real, it all made her cry and sob harder. She was happy, so, so happy. She collapsed there, right at the feet of the figure. Its arms came down as it, too, kneeled, and it enveloped her in a hug of the middle ground, of impurity, but not of evil. That middle ground, she realized, was the ideal: so perfect, so calm, so nonconflicting, so unextreme. That middle ground saved her from shadowy darkness.Recommend0 Simily SnapsPublished in