Whispering

Rain beats down my window, calling my name as a slight round of thunder encourages my inarticulate slur of emotions.

I watch the little droplets fall down the glass.

I want to scream.

Before I know it, I am sitting on my bedroom floor. I look at the bare walls and begin to sob. My hands are gripping my knees, pulling them into my chest. I can hear my shallow breathing, my heart wildly thumping, and my mind emptying itself of any damage that’s been caused.

I can’t even remember why I feel this way, nor am I really sure of exactly what I’m feeling.

An irregular pattern of tears slowly trickles down my face—I can definitely feel that.

I can also feel my anger; it’s what’s fueling this episode.

But what I can’t feel is hope or a future.

What is hope, anyway? Is it what you feel when you’re holding out on a dream, hoping for a better today, a better tomorrow? Or is it what you feel when you’ve finally discovered the meaning of your existence?

Do we even have a reason to our existence?

I stare at the white walls and they stare back at me. Soon, we’re engaged in a staring contest, a competition of willpower, a struggle for power and control.

I can hear it whispering to me, telling me to give up.

I wonder what it’s like being a butterfly, just floating around with no worries or sadness running through your veins.

I clench my jaw at the thought and feel the surge of jealousy that rushes into me. And then, I taste blood—warm, metallic blood.

I think of my chemistry class and how blood almost has a neutral pH.

More useless thoughts flit and dart around my mind.

If it were spring, I’d want to become a butterfly—I’d want to fly away to a better time, a better place, and a better person. I’d fly through the rain, over mountains, and even in the cold. I’d stretch my beautiful wings as far as I could. I’d just fly—fly into the unknown, the uninhibited, the distant longing I've been yearning for.

If it were summer, I’d transform into a brook—a tripping, laughing, and happy little stream of water that danced day after day after day. Nothing would stand in my way. Not pebbles or stones, no obstacles at all. I’d be forever free to just follow the wind.

But it’s not spring, and I’m not a butterfly. It’s not summer, and I’m not a brook. I am none of the things I wish to be, instead, I am shaking, broken and cold, screaming, haunting, and empty. I am scared of the things I can do to myself. I am terrified of what awaits me in the future.

I am listening to the whispering walls whose endless gloating will eventually crack me in to a tiny million pieces.

It’s winter in my mind.

I let out a painful cry and begin rocking myself.

The walls are still whispering in my ears.

I can’t stand to live in this horrific place anymore.

Will the whispering ever stop?