4

Might be chemical. Might be. Might..

It’s all too sudden to handle, too swift to process. She gets hit by a train of massive disappointment and sadness.. and rage. She’s mad at herself, mad at the world, mad at herself.. Mad.

Going completely mental seems to take over her reality, brutally sucking the life out of her tender flesh. Her  head is roughly going through a process of denial and self-destruction after so helplessly and rapidly burning through every single moment, through every single memory, real or fake, through every inch of her scattered brain waves. Restlessly pulling her under. She fades away with every dying heartbeat. Boom. Boom.. Boom.

That loud, obnoxious beep is still going strong in her inner ear, sliding through the Eustachian tube towards the pharynx, where it asphyxiates her, choking and suffocating her, stealing every breath she has to offer with no mercy whatsoever.

She can not separate the background noise from the internal one. They mix up in a rough, scratchy, yet gooey amalgam and slide down her chest and press so very hard on her fragile collarbones.. So heavy.. Yet she struggles to survive despite the bleeding wounds she has on her pale, white skin. A desperate move to the left, a hopeless one to the right, a low, morbid cry manages to escape, but no one hears her. No one’s there to help her stay alive.

Is she dying? Is this her last battle?

She thinks about herself, and she looks in the mirror, but all she sees is a deform, faulty, small-eyed monster. What evil did it take for this mysterious, dangerous creature to materialize and grow? What hell did she escape from and where does she go next?

She thinks. She smells the cinnamon essence again. So strong, so destructive.. A devastation of the senses. Total collapse.