Don't Listen, Darling

My red trench coat fluttered ever so softly as a light flicker of a breeze picked up the crimson fibres, as the fog continued to freeze and hustle the people who dared to walk along the cobbled side pavement. It was quite as I sat on the frame of the rust coloured bridge, almost as if the people had silenced their harsh and senseless barks, as I contemplated the long, steep jump below my purple DC clad feet. My stomach did not swirl or turn at the thought of finally dropping to the oh, so apparent, stage of many a suicide.

I felt one wet, almost warm, tear drop from the corner of my ivy coloured eyes, the single tear signifying that even my soul knew what fate was soon to be becoming.

Slowly, as I looked at the early morning sun, I realised that the sadness had been present for quite a long time, but over the past couple of months, I think even my very insides had become incorporated into the exhausting feeling. My own heart incapable of feeling love, or anything of that fluttering kind, leaving me paralyzed in a never ending torment of sadness.

Some would probably wonder how I came to this rather indulgent situation, I always remember my brother asking ‘Why are you so sad all the time Mina? Surely there is no need?’ and the only reply I could give him was ‘there is always time to be sad.’ Unable to even confide in my dear brother, that even as I closed my eyes for the quiet of sleep, I could still here hundreds of voices, some just echoing history, some deliberately shouting and screaming my name, trying to find the attention I could not give.

I would always remember the day, when I saw and heard for the first time, that of the hidden people, ghosts who where trapped in a stage between death and the afterlife, never quite reaching the supposed ‘golden gate’, always hovering between the two, many focusing their energies on tormenting that of the living. You see, most people can tell when ghosts are there, many just put it down to other reasons that some places are ‘shivery’ or ‘cold’, but there are some who can see, feel, and hear those of the evident gap. It’s rather a shame though that I have never had the joyous pleasure of meeting another with such senses though…

“What are you doing, love?” The voice made me jump slightly, as I hadn’t noticed someone was sitting beside me on the edge of the bridge. I turned to look at the deep voiced man, meeting some of the most extraordinarily green eyes, almost neon in colour. They were studying my face, sadness written deep within them. It was then I felt the tears rushing their way down my cheeks, and I knew it was time to go. As I started shifting myself closer to the edge, I felt a hand grip my arm, almost dainty fingers painted with a chipped black.

“Sweetheart, listen, let me at least try to help…” I felt one chilly finger rest itself upon my cheek, making me turn back and look at him. I felt even more tears run down my face, then his hand fell, and he pulled me into his lap, letting me rest my head against his chest, I inhaled softly, smelling smoke and another strange smell, I couldn’t quite place. By this point I was making small hiccupping cries, he was rocking ever to gently back and forward shushing and hushing me.

“Why do you want to go, love?” He asked gently

“Death is so...lonley.” Was all I could reply with, then I closed my eyes, exhausted after months of little sleep, leaving him to wonder over the meaning of my words.