Medea Abandoned
A lamp flares in the darkness. The wick is adjusted. Faint trills of music drift through the night and in a dim room, pen scratches against paper. An authoress sits by her window and glances out at the night sky. The light reflects off the window and the stars are blocked out. She is darkness in a dark room.
Under her hand, the pen moves swiftly and leaves delicate black lines. Words that aren’t words, words that aren’t the words she seeks, are left behind. Her heart aches with the things she writes. She bleeds on the paper but the blood is never enough. It pours and gushes and spills forth. But it is never enough
Who could comprehend, she wonders. Who could star beyond crisp paper and glimpse the maw she puts there?
Her shoulders are heavy with effort. Her wrist is sore from concentrating so much effort and focus into her left hand, the evil hand.
She feels as though hung from a noose, her body weight dragging along the floor. Her boots offer that ominous scrape along the wooden planks of the floor.
She takes the medicine the witch gave her, risking damnation, because what has the priest done for her of late? She prays it will work. She prays it will somehow kill her.
The woman is afraid to close her eyes. She is afraid of the pit that lurks beneath her pillow, the pit she will fall into. She never breathes the fall; she only wakes at the bottom, knowing she has arrived. It is the ledge she fears, in twisted irony.
Her head pounds the rhythm. Her eyes weep. Her soul screams. Her mind wanders over hill and dale and she can find no way to bring it back. Once she wanted to give up. Now she has, and nothing has changed. Breath is still breath. Life is still life. And there is still no reason to live it.
The woman has become the witch. Spitting spells out against the night, wrapping it beneath her hand and setting it to the paper. Vines and cobwebs have wrapped the house. The light burns ghostly white and lures the locals to their deaths.
She is darkness in a dark room.
Under her hand, the pen moves swiftly and leaves delicate black lines. Words that aren’t words, words that aren’t the words she seeks, are left behind. Her heart aches with the things she writes. She bleeds on the paper but the blood is never enough. It pours and gushes and spills forth. But it is never enough
Who could comprehend, she wonders. Who could star beyond crisp paper and glimpse the maw she puts there?
Her shoulders are heavy with effort. Her wrist is sore from concentrating so much effort and focus into her left hand, the evil hand.
She feels as though hung from a noose, her body weight dragging along the floor. Her boots offer that ominous scrape along the wooden planks of the floor.
She takes the medicine the witch gave her, risking damnation, because what has the priest done for her of late? She prays it will work. She prays it will somehow kill her.
The woman is afraid to close her eyes. She is afraid of the pit that lurks beneath her pillow, the pit she will fall into. She never breathes the fall; she only wakes at the bottom, knowing she has arrived. It is the ledge she fears, in twisted irony.
Her head pounds the rhythm. Her eyes weep. Her soul screams. Her mind wanders over hill and dale and she can find no way to bring it back. Once she wanted to give up. Now she has, and nothing has changed. Breath is still breath. Life is still life. And there is still no reason to live it.
The woman has become the witch. Spitting spells out against the night, wrapping it beneath her hand and setting it to the paper. Vines and cobwebs have wrapped the house. The light burns ghostly white and lures the locals to their deaths.
She is darkness in a dark room.
Comments