dead heart

She occupied a corner space in her dark room. Her dusty old room with grey curtains and grey dust, waiting for a broom to bring it back to life. She stayed in her corner waiting in the dark to feel her heart beat again so she could finally move from her place and blow away the dust around her. Her hair tangled, her nails chipping and her clothes withering away, she sat in her corner listening to the hollow buzz of violin that wouldn’t escape out of her head. Her eyes fixed on the nothing she found on the wall in front of her and her insides becoming more and more hollow, she waited for her heart to beat so she could blow away the dust around her.

She tried to get her heart to feel something by thinking about the infinite moments of sorrow which came together to call themselves her life. But her heart stayed hard and thick, refusing to budge. But she could feel herself vanishing away from herself and she had to feel something to exist. She helped herself to a rusty old blade and slid it across her tiny little finger. A straight line of blood appeared, a small line of tear fell from the corner of her eye, tracing a silver line down to her chin, but her heart stayed the same. She stared at her bleeding finger, waiting for it to cry out in pain, but the finger stared back at her empty eyes with nothing to offer.

She drew the blade across her arm, a deep straight line across the veins clutching onto her heart. Her arms turned red, her heart remained dead. But her eyes finally heard her plea and blurred out the nothingness in front of her, slowly drawing the curtain down until she was finally set free.

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