I missed a line.

「水筒」 by coca @Pixiv

Calm, Cool, Collected.

Somehow, as I grew up, these words that I wished to define myself as, became:

Apathetic, Unmotivated, and Broken.

I think every day, without a doubt,
that I survived that day, because my sadistic "guardian angel"wanted to show me a year of happiness.
When he knew, that it would all be taken from me.

This year, I was supposed to be happy.

Every three years. I believed.
A miracle would happen for me.
Like every three years, I would have a miracle fall in my lap.
I'd be happy for a year, just so I can live for the next two.

Now I feel betrayed.

Where's my end of the bargain?


I think I missed a line.

Somewhere in my life, I missed a line.

A line that told everyone, "I'm underwater. Suffocating. Broken. Exploding and rotting inside. One intestine and organ at a time."

A line that screamed, "Help me."

A line that said, "The sea can erode me, take away a layer at a time, but every layer it takes off or smooths over, doesn't make me any prettier."

One simple line.

And suddenly, I find my world crashing around me. Exploding. Imploding. Burning. Screaming. Hissing.

Boom. Bang. Click.

Splash.
The lights turn on. And there I am. All around me are the objects of my past, broken, exploded, dying.

But in front of me.
In front of me, is me.
Held in a container, full of water, long since dead, and died believing I was in the sea.
Clutching what I thought was my saving grace. Holding onto all the hopes and dreams I had that year.
Beautiful.

And I take a seat. Staring into that glass. Watching her float. Euphorically. Ethereal. Godly.
As time ticks by.

I don't remember starving. I don't remember being thirsty. I remember waiting.

And then a girl.

Click. Creak. Thump. Thump. Thump.
"Hello," she said. "I'm the new you."
She cleaned up. Put everything away. Ran around the house, talking, watching me, loving, while being loved.
Then, one day, she broke, too.
She sat down beside me. She asked me questions. She looked at me. She said I was beautiful.

And then she died.

I stood up then. Brought her cold, unmoving, dry corpse to a room. One in the back. At the top.
I sat her down. In a chair towards a window, tilted her head up to see the sky, and said:
"Warm up, but don't wake up."

And then I sat back down. Only then, did I realize, she had written a lot. She had wanted to write on the walls, because the papers were too crowded, but nothing was important enough to put to stone.

Stone.
I look down.
Rattle. Cling. Click. Rattle. Cling. Click.

I had never changed.
The rusted chains are still mine.
There's no such thing as freedom.

海