Page 93 of Mortala
Still, I hold.Letting go means she would be right and I'd be damned if I let her prove to anyone that she's alone, or no one’s strong enough to stay when her whole life’s falling apart.She can hate herself all she wants.Hell, she can hate me if that makes her feel better.The fact of the matter is, I'll bleed for her.Breathe for her.Die for her.
"I love you."
Sadie gasps through choked sobs, no longer wailing.
Her painful cries sucker-punch me in the gut and make me wish I could snap my fingers to fix everything for her.Instead, her face turns pink and splotchy from the struggle.All of that and Sadie got nowhere, other than digging her nails into knuckles I stopped feeling decades ago.
There's nothing I can say or do to calm her down; she needs to feel this.Allow herself to be angry, loved, and scared all at once.So, I wait, refuse to release her, and watch the woman I love wordlessly beg for salvation.
Tears gather at the corners of her eyes until they slip out and back to her temples, where stringy hair soaks them up like a sponge.The same pale strands I've spent hours combing my fingers through flare around her head like the vicious glow spilling out from an eclipse.
"I'm no one worth loving."She struggles to speak past her tear-softened lips.
Mine open and close as if I'm a fish out of water, wanting to argue but I know better.You can't rebuild years of self-loathing and isolation in the matter of a few days.This will take time and I have no plans on going anywhere soon—if I have to suffer every day until she learns the difference, I'll pledge my devotion to her and give her a better life.
Dipping, my forehead crashes against her ashy knuckles where I finally feel my chest cave.We fall apart together.Her with hatred for who she is, then me when I give into the shake of my shoulders and silent tears cut through my stubble.Today’s the first time, and the last, she will ever have to see me cry for her.
I love this maddening woman, even when her actions are killing both of us.
Chapter thirty-one
Spawn
I'vethoughtabouttheend more than I’ll ever admit.Not just my life, but the whole of humanity and existence.It's terrifying to know that in less than one hundred years, out of billions, all of us living today will be gone.Only those who are born in the next few will be here to remember those who came before them.
The majority of us won't be written about.We won't exist in history books, movies, or music.Art won't be left behind, poetry will never be spoken, and memories of us will cease to exist.
How gut-wrenching it is to be forgotten.
At times, the idea of being a blip in time makes my stomach churn.What will we see when we die?Is there a pearly gate on the other side, hell fire, or plain darkness?
I wonder, sometimes, if those who preach salvation think they may be getting it all wrong.
What if they are?Maybe heaven and hell don't exist and there's nothing but blackness waiting for us.I don't mean the absence of color or light, either.I mean unfathomable nothingness.The same type of incomprehensible experience of imaging what one would see if they try to look out of their bony elbows or eyes parents claim they have on the back of their heads.
Try it.Think long and hard about what it would be like to watch your loved ones from your elbows.If you try to picture it, your brain will fail to conceptualize the sight.That is what's waiting for us after death.At least, that's what I think is hiding on the other side of the vail.
Perhaps I'm wrong.Maybe humans de-evolutionize.Do you remember that?Can you think back that far, to when giant lizards roamed the earth?How about when fish finally waddled out of the water and found home amongst plants and soil?Bet you a handful of Risperdal that you can't.
We didn't exist, just like we won't when we inevitably die.
Warmth and light will not be waiting for us after we take our last breath.People use the promise of afterlife and paradise because they're afraid of what really waits for them—profound nothingness.There’s no purpose in being human.There’s no meaning though people spend their entire lives searching for it.
I won't say that I've come to terms with it, realizing one day I’ll be gone, but the idea is there.My body won't be high on forced chemicals solely to keep me from flying off the handle.Swirling mini monsoons of vile and depreciating thoughts will no longer leave me in confusion or bouts of self-loathing.Things like hunger, pain, and worry will no longer have a hold on me.
While most people see death as the worst thing that could happen to them, for me it would be a solace.
Instead, I'm confined to this bed with my arms bound to it, with no way to move without alarming someone.My thoughts are continuously assaulted by the psychiatrist who mines through them, on the hunt for diamonds and gold.Truthfully, being in this hospital without anything to look forward to has me focused more on the promise of oblivion.
Alright, maybe not the only thing, but it's at the top of the list.
How am I supposed to wait for something that may take years when I've been making moves for myself all my life?Hell, I've already overstayed my welcome and usefulness—that's what the demons tell me, anyway.
Society says we're not allowed to take lives, including our own, but it'smine.I own it, it's attached to me, it's been mine since day one.Why am I allowed to make final decisions regarding other property, whether disposing of it or giving it away, but I can't do the same thing with myself?
I'll tell you why—because we don't belong to ourselves.We're cogs in a system in need of oil and care but the operator is too busy to do the maintenance.At birth, we're given names, a number, and citizenship, effectively enslaving us to masters who have no God given right to our bodies or souls.We're raised, put in school, sent into the world to work and hopefully do something good, give all of our money to lazy politicians, raise the next generation, sacrifice our lives to religion and cause, only to die and be forgotten.
By God, I don't want to do it.My soul's been around for far too long, felt too much, and lived too little.When you've circled the block too many times, living becomes its own type of torture.
