All right, this is a short story-type thing I wrote recently. I was upset and listening to the song "Sleep" by Eric Whitacre, and I started writing. It ended up being for a contest. The theme said that the story had to be inspired by a song, so it fit perfectly. Anyway, I hope you enjoy.
Note: This is the only "chapter." It's supposed be a
short story.
I do highly recommend you listen to the song while reading this. Here it is:http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qhCS7etNEbU&feature=relatedI heard my blood crying and I let my forehead hit the mirror, my breath laboring through my bitten lips as I glanced down at my arm. It was draped in scarlet velvet that streamed over my wrists like the wet sky that pattered my window outside. Placing my blade on the sink, I let myself fall to my knees, the cool tile floor kissing my skin bitterly. The pain, it was beautiful, two stars making love against the navy sheet of night, flames slapping my flesh feverishly. I was dying. I was glad.
“**** it . . . **** all this . . .” I muttered unevenly, my head falling back. Dead, he was dead, asleep beneath tilled ground, taken by shadows. My breath stopped with his, and I knew it was time suffocate. Because it was yesterday—yesterday he was alive, writing my Christmas card, grabbing his gun. I stopped myself. “I can’t think about it,” I stammered out, my body quaking furiously. “I just need to sleep.”
Sleep. I couldn’t stifle my laughter. Fucking euphemisms. Pretty words meant nothing to the splintered soul, nothing but pain, just like everything else. My father was dead, and I couldn’t run from it. My head felt numb as I let my body slink to the floor, tracing my fingertips over the surface. Round and round. Just like everything else. There was no end to this brutal “circle of life,” so sturdy, without a crack. The Lion King made it look so damn easy.
“Dad . . .” My voice was soft, eaten by tears. I buried my hands in between the dark strands of my hair, blood clutching it, and my fists began to clench. “Are you happy now? Goddamn it, Dad!” I grimaced. My wrist was throbbing, and the noises—those somber death songs—were at my ear. In that moment, I could remember everything, the letter written in eye-rain:
Daddy,
I’ve been sitting here for the longest time just trying to muster the strength to write that first word. “Daddy.” Yes, I’m your daughter. I’m not really sure if you actually understand that. I’ll be frank. You had sex with my MOTHER, and then I came along. But I am your lover. Remember those nights of passion? I let you **** me senselessly when Mom wasn’t around. I am your client. Oh, the drugs were so good. I couldn’t get enough. High after high. So good. But I am your daughter, DADDY. There were twelve pages of cold screaming, but I wanted them back. I wanted to scream again: “I’m sorry! I take it all back! I didn’t mean it! I didn’t mean to . . . I never wanted you to die! Please! I’m so sorry!” But my voice was still echoing, and ink was still spilling from my lips. The words I carved that day were still breathing. My father was still dead.
But it wasn’t that bad before he was gone. I could remember the way he’d gently kiss my neck, my back pressed against his chest; and it was beautiful, so twisted, so disgusting, and so glorious. I let myself justify our sins, so why did I suddenly fight? I could’ve lived—he could’ve lived. But the minute I fought back, he decided he was too goddamn weak to stick it out.
“What the ****?” I screamed between teary gasps. “What the hell is your problem? I would’ve lived for you! I would’ve . . . Just let me take it back now!” I felt my voice growing weaker, and my vision began to cloud. I watched the blood on the floor blur into a dark blanket, smothering my body, fading, and fading some more. It was slow, but I let myself enjoy every second of it, the lullaby of my surrender to sleep.