Dead inside, she had become a shell of the woman she once believed she was; a maverick, a creator, a shepherd of the black lambs and a healer of the strongest men.

An uprising began months ago, and although it was only in her head, she could not see any other truth; paranoia now invaded the space where her heart used to summer.

When had all the fear crept in, and through what cracks and crevices? Sealed tight for nearly a decade, this robot of a woman was sure she had never let her guard down. Had it happened while she was sleeping? Curing stifled synapses with an exercise of the dreaming kind? Or maybe she had lost her senses during a cross country suicide, trickling out with the blood of 270 days worth of pin pricks. Perhaps she had not actually lost anything at all, but instead had gained the perspective of a complete stranger by brushing her shoulder against his on a crowded street. These things were contagious, she had heard.

However it had begun, it was now here to stay, cemented into her being, her memory, for ever and ever more. Blood like ice water ran through nearly numb veins, as much as she longed for it to warm again. Constantly she rubbed at her prickled skin, trying to build a static energy that would not catch light.

All the while, they fed her brain with nuggets of hope, only to yank them from her open lips at first taste. Wait, that's not true - she had spit them out, because death cannot be nourished by the food its memory still craves so intensely; it can only be taunted by it.

Boundless insight and still she could find no cure - she could only apologize again and again for the invasion of an enemy so mighty.

06/07/2007

Posted on 06/08/2007
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