Distorted Perceptions
Submerge
Street lights flicker, snow flakes gently drifting down towards the earth, melting instantly into the asphalt. She pulls her old, tattered raincoat tight around her worn body, though it fails to provide much warmth. She's walking a familiar route, the same she walks every night, through city streets and dark, abandoned alleyways. She's walking home, or to what she calls home, but she knows all that will greet her are more bank notes. And all she has to contribute is a bit of loose change.
She does what she can to scrape by, but her habits make it exceptionally difficult. She tried to stop, she knew it was wrong. But by then, it was too late. By then, she knew no one could help, she couldn't get better. Yes, it was wrong, but so was everything else in the world. Nothing was stopping her from complying to the standards of society.
She breathes crisp air through her pale, chapped lips, stinging her lungs. Thoughts and ideas plague her mind as she stops to ponder what her mother would have thought of her actions, her decisions, her regrets. She's has so many regrets. So many things she's done wrong, things she wishes she could repeat in an attempt to change history. But life doesn't work that way. She knows it doesn't, yet she stills enjoys closing her eyes, shutting out the world and pretending that it does. After a while, though, keeping her eyes shut simply wasn't enough.
She took up her job in order to feed her addiction. In turn, her addiction feeds the beast constantly lurking in all corners of her mind, slowly closing in on her. She doesn't like it; hates it, even. But what can she do now? She's much too weak to fight off the evils that have taken residence inside her. The moment she was away from him, out of his house, there was no holding it back. No longer is there a need for her to hide her flaws from the world. Because outside of her sheltered, abusive life, nobody else cares, and she's surprised to find so many people who are just like her.
But the voice in the back of her head still remains, and it has only become more tenacious. It takes over her body and soul little by little, day by day. It continuously demands more from her. More drugs, more alcohol, more power. So much power for something that only exists inside her mind. But she listens to it, complies to each of its demands. She can barely pay her rent with the pocket change she has left over, but rent doesn't matter. All that matters is satisfying the ever growing hunger of the beast.
She has nothing to live for, nothing to die for, nothing to contribute to the world. She's just another speck of dust, a splattered bug on the windshield of society, the scum of the earth. She's the person she used to scowl at while walking down the street, holding her mother's hand. She's the person who people are glad to see fall of the face of the earth.
She's the person she never wanted to be. But that is exactly what she has become.
She does what she can to scrape by, but her habits make it exceptionally difficult. She tried to stop, she knew it was wrong. But by then, it was too late. By then, she knew no one could help, she couldn't get better. Yes, it was wrong, but so was everything else in the world. Nothing was stopping her from complying to the standards of society.
She breathes crisp air through her pale, chapped lips, stinging her lungs. Thoughts and ideas plague her mind as she stops to ponder what her mother would have thought of her actions, her decisions, her regrets. She's has so many regrets. So many things she's done wrong, things she wishes she could repeat in an attempt to change history. But life doesn't work that way. She knows it doesn't, yet she stills enjoys closing her eyes, shutting out the world and pretending that it does. After a while, though, keeping her eyes shut simply wasn't enough.
She took up her job in order to feed her addiction. In turn, her addiction feeds the beast constantly lurking in all corners of her mind, slowly closing in on her. She doesn't like it; hates it, even. But what can she do now? She's much too weak to fight off the evils that have taken residence inside her. The moment she was away from him, out of his house, there was no holding it back. No longer is there a need for her to hide her flaws from the world. Because outside of her sheltered, abusive life, nobody else cares, and she's surprised to find so many people who are just like her.
But the voice in the back of her head still remains, and it has only become more tenacious. It takes over her body and soul little by little, day by day. It continuously demands more from her. More drugs, more alcohol, more power. So much power for something that only exists inside her mind. But she listens to it, complies to each of its demands. She can barely pay her rent with the pocket change she has left over, but rent doesn't matter. All that matters is satisfying the ever growing hunger of the beast.
She has nothing to live for, nothing to die for, nothing to contribute to the world. She's just another speck of dust, a splattered bug on the windshield of society, the scum of the earth. She's the person she used to scowl at while walking down the street, holding her mother's hand. She's the person who people are glad to see fall of the face of the earth.
She's the person she never wanted to be. But that is exactly what she has become.