Nothing

Swirls of mist, like arms, are reaching out to grab her ankles. She runs with the breath of her perpetual fear in her ears and parts the mists with her legs as she rushes by. Her garments just a few shreds of clothing hanging from her shoulders, covering the private parts of her body. She knows not how long she has been running, the voice has been whispering for so long. In this place, there is no day, no night, no moon nor light. The grey of the sky devours all colours and it looks like the world is a black and white movie, with all these shades of grey. Bound to her hips with a string made of hair hangs a little pouch with the little belongings she has. They look like nothing more than ordinary items, a ring, a hairclip, a coin, a silver spoon, a straight razor and kinds of gadgets and gizmos small enough to all fit in two hands. The muffled sound of her feet on the cold structureless grounds echoes through the nothingness as the mist crows fly up around her.

Everything is made out of mist that seems to rise from the floor under her feet. The trees and birds, the human shades, everything around her is made out of mist. The more she runs, the more tired she gets but somehow there is always strength left to carry on, to hide, to scream, to live.



Suddenly, as if a silent whisper told her to, she trips over her own feet while she was looking over her shoulder to see who was behind her. She knows that she shouldn’t be covered by the mist for too long, for it will smother her and crush her body and she will evaporate and turn into swirls of mist herself. Leaning on her knee she gets up and sees the only colour in the grey would around her, red, the colour bright red, decorating her knee like brilliant rubies on white silk. Deep inside she feels the warmth she had lost, a short moment to catch her breath above the thundering waves of the ocean. She brushes off the blood and runs further towards the nothingness before her. There, right in front of here is a small trunk, a real one, made out of real wood. It seems like it’s soaring just above the mist. The top bit hardly visible, but real enough to touch. Her fingers caress the rough surface as she climbs on it and sits down. From this place she can see the world, grey, cold and lifeless. This is where she has been living as long as she can remember.

The mist whispers in her ear, softly, like an sub-consciousness, “You will never out run us, you will join us.” “Become one of us, you are one of us, let us take you with us.” As she brushes away a swirl of mist tipping her toe she sees the little red line of blood that stuck on the side of her knee, she tried brushing off only to replace it to her fingers. The vibrant red was screaming to her, the blood within her had to be revealed, had to come out, wanted to be shown to the world. She loosened the string of her pouch and searched for the only sharp object she had, the straight razor, a little rusty but still sharp as the teeth of a snake. Pointing the tip of the razor to her chest, she moved it quickly and decisive over her body, cut after cut. When she was done she pressed her finger right underneath her skin and pulled, the skin loosened and she become as vibrant as the sun, red as a ruby and firm as a tree. Her skin fell down, hanging over the trunk, swirls crawling over it, smearing blood over the surface of the world. She stood there, smiling, hands raised to the air, muscles and bones, organs and nerves. Her protective layer of grey gone from her soul. She was out in the open, naked, fragile, crying drops of blood, rolling down her skinless cheeks. For the first time the voices did no longer whisper, the mist rolled back and the world turned black. In the end there is nothing.

***

The bathroom floor a mess of white and red, changing shape like a shadow. A girl with long raven black hair lay on the floor, arms stretched out, a little black dress covering her body, a content smile on her face. The blood still creeping from the cuts on her arms and legs while her skin has gone cold and the life has disappeared out of her eyes. Several bottles of pills scattered on the floor, empty. In her hand a straight razor, fingers covered in small cuts from holding it too tight. She looked peaceful, a porcelain doll on a red velvet cloth. For the first time since she knew, her fears were gone and the voices inside her head held their tongues. She longed for it so much, so longed for there to be nothing, nothing, nothing.