Over Soon

A chunk of hair has just been ripped from my scalp. A scratch across my cheek displays anger through frustration and demanded relief. A need to end this is breaking through the cracks of sanity. We’re all sick of this world.

With each one different, should we try to find a better route to express our hidden, cramped ideas of a secret torture worse than hands or materials can construct on someone? Does anyone have the right to put their mark of pressure on someone else? Does anyone not care when they do?

Picture this:
Staring down a deserted hallway, a red flag dancing in the distance, behind your thoughts. Ahead of you is a garden, full of colorful creations and designs Mother Nature brings us each spring. On the horizon is a deep grey-blue, aching to be feared.
And ache no more, it shall be.

You take a step, for the garden is gentle, warming your fingertips with an innocent heat. Sunlight splays through the branches of willow trees and nearby bushes full of soft, pink petals and a sharp glance to your left indicates there’s more to each side. More innocence, more welcoming fields of roses, sunflowers and daffodils.

But you step farther still.

The soft grass turns to stone beneath your bare feet; hard, jagged pebbles digging into your toes with each movement. You want to turn back, but you’re going strong now, running now, faster and faster. Just get through it, you tell yourself. It’ll be over soon.
You’re feet are screaming in protest to the pain; angry red marks appearing. The thick, dead trees block the warm sunlight, trapping you inside a torrent of darkness. You’re gasping for breath, terrified, about to scream yourself. About to lose yourself entirely.

It’ll be over soon, you tell yourself quietly.

It’ll be over soon.