Memento Mori

A/N Such a dark imagery summoned a new OC. This was written a few days ago, as a safe way to deal with nefarious urges. I didn't know if I should post it, but I have posted similar writings before. Of course, you can overlook this one like the previous ones, but if I'm posting, it's to help break the shame that often follows whether or not those thoughts come to fruition. It's not in order to romanticize or glamorize a situation that is already dreadful, but just a safe way for me, when I can have a little bit of control. I needed to point it out given a few very stressful messages I received a while ago for similar writings. Please, overlook if you are not interested in reading anything I post. Let me use this catharsis. Thank you.

Xxxxxxxxx

I remember you

She stood in the middle of the room, her arms outstretched from each side of her tall frame. Her jet black locks cascading down on her back. Her black eyes averted from left to right as she took in her surroundings. One large coffin, made of wood, was standing in front of her. There lied a stone sculpture of a young maiden, with her face hidden by a large veil and her hands joined in a praying gesture. The starless and cloudless sky allowed for the moon to shine brighter than it used to, casting light onto the creature that was standing in the middle of the room, which appeared to be a mausoleum. If one could pay attention, they would realize that the creature didn't have a shadow, but who was there to witness such a moment. The woman walked closer to the sculpture. Her fingers traced every curve of the marble representation of who lied within the coffin. They wiped out her name, her image, her memory for the one lying in the coffin committed the worst crime she could have. She took her own life.

I remember you, poor little soul.

As she touched the sculpture, it started to weep tears made of blood which left the woman smile faintly as her fingers moved over to the coffin. After all these years it was a miracle it was even there. Most coffins were pillaged by scavengers. Bones were sold to universities so they could study anatomy. The clothes and jewelry were sold as well. If it happened that the corpse still had hair, they would shave it and make a wig out of it to sell. The young woman's coffin was intact. Not broken, not even dusty. It felt as if she had been buried there just yesterday. While the sculpture kept on weeping blood tears, the creature that came to visit kept running her fingers through the heavy coffin. She remembered the one buried here, despite every desperate attempt at making the dead erased from history. Her life wasn't an easy one. It was full of violence and pain. It was a life full of self-hate and desperate meaningless attempt at surviving. The poor girl couldn't find the light. She couldn't hear the compliments, she couldn't feel the love. She couldn't see the good she was doing around herself. She couldn't heal. Poor soul. A bleeding wound that walked among other humans, unnoticed from those who claimed to be her kin, preserving those she chose to be her family and keeping her suffering to herself. She held onto her pain as if it was a treasure and died.

I remember your pain, excruciating, debilitating pain.

There was a lot of anger in that soul of hers. Anger towards herself, which always manifested in self-inflicted injuries. They would always be small, easy to hide and would often go unnoticed. Then you had the self-inflicted mental abuse. The one that followed and sometimes happened at the same time as the one she never asked for. Her heart broke so many times because of herself. Her absent sense of value, her lack of self-compassion and self-appreciation. There was a lot of anger in that soul of hers. One she couldn't direct to the people who truly hurt her and that consumed her. There was a lot of pain and blood and Death. Death became a companion of her. One she lived with almost her whole life. The sirens never stopped singing praises in hope to lure the young girl in. Death always offered her a friendly comfort, in telling her that she was the only one to truly care about her. She always offered a friendly presence, one that never left her. She was there, in the pictures of dead people the girl stared at for hours, finding a weird strange peace or feeling envious of the end of their suffering. She was there, when the girl pictured herself away, into the void, a place where she would feel nothing. She comforted her when the girl cried in the darkness of her room or in the emptiness of her heart, claiming that even if she joined her, the world would keep on spinning around. People wouldn't mourn for her, she would be forgotten, life would prevail.

It consumed you, til the very end. Didn't it?

The appeal was strong. There were days, Death came close to welcome her friend but always, something, someone, kept the girl from joining her. It didn't matter. It was just a matter of time before finally, she embraced her friend in one warm hug. It wouldn't be this terrible now, would it? How could one who feels like she didn't matter and never would, find a way to move on? How could one who kept hurting herself, in hopes that it would make the pain of being alive stop, live? Where was the appeal? She lost the appeal to keep going a long time ago. She went from day to day, wishing she wasn't breathing and enduring it for the sake of others. She could be dead for all she cared, others, loved ones, kept her alive. Loved ones drove her towards the edge as well. Those she kept on loving despite them not returning those feelings back. And a feeling of betrayal overwhelmed her. How could one live when they didn't even have an identity? When being themselves was forbidden by the very people who put you on this Earth? How do you disengage emotionally from people you are supposed to love and who are supposed to want you and love you back? How can you heal from being broken ever since you were born? Who are you? The image of yourself you've tried to be or the one those who made you breathe had of you? Questions without answers, a pain without end. It ate her up and she couldn't tell. How could she explain? It didn't help that people she used to trust, betrayed that trust and hurt her. It didn't help that her body had been beaten up and violated so many times or that she nearly died but it was brushed off by people around her. People save for her loved on.. the one and only..the other half of her lungs who believed her straight away? It didn't help her in loving herself. She was disposable. She was stupid. She was an embarrassment for everyone, including herself. She was a nobody.

How does it feel now? To be free?

The creature remembered that poor soul, as her fingers still traced the coffin's simple arabesques sculpted on. She remembered the shame, the self-loathing for feeling weak, for feeling helpless. She remembered the young soul berating herself for not being able to handle more suffering. She remembered standing on her toes and weighing whether joining her friend or enduring more pain to see how far she could go. How much she could endure. Each surviving week became one more adventure. Something to brag about "Hey, look how much of a badass survivor I am. I could take it one more week." But it was all masquerades and schemes. It was all running towards danger while ignoring all the red flags. Everything was fine, everything would always be fine. If she was asked what duel took place in her head, she would reply that a peace-treaty was signed. If she was asked if the hole in her heart was fixed, she would simply nod because words couldn't hide well enough how it truly was. Torment....eternal torment.. a never ending cycle of self-doubt and blind eyes to the simplest needs, the simplest urges. We all do want love, don't we? We all do need warmth, don't we? She pretended she didn't because when she did, it only hurt. Betrayals, making fool of herself and other rejections had won a battle she was too tired to lead. It wouldn't work, so why bother?

How does it feel now? To be alive again?

The creature felt tears come up to her eyes. She hadn't cried in what seemed to be millennia. As blood stained the wooden coffin, the memories of that young girl resurfaced. The most violent ones. The least pleasant. The night she decided to join Mistress Death, she couldn't handle the pain no more. Living had always been a burden, but she always kept going because she had a sense of duty. A relative, a friend. She promised to all of them to hang in there, but not to herself. Herself wasn't there, she already was dead. After so long for living for others, maintaining herself alive so they could see her smile, or try to. She just couldn't. The usual means to soothe her soul didn't work anymore, the burden she had been carrying for years was too heavy so she couldn't move. She was stuck there, slowly but surely suffocating to Death. Nothing she tried worked. She wasn't who she tried to be, still lost after all those years of not living. It all became clear. Why being a burden to those around? those who couldn't help. Those who would never know how to help and would blame themselves for something they couldn't change? for a soul, they couldn't save? Why being a burden and a waste of space and skin and air... when you simply could not be? She kept writing about it, about her leaving. About her disappearing and finally did so. Was it painless? No. She wasn't smart enough, so obviously, she chose wrong. She opted for something she had been doing already for years without meaning it until she found the strength to. And in agonizing hours, she finally gave in. She died.

Free from this world, yet bound to it still

Nobody remembered her. They made it clear so she would disappear. Soon enough the tears stopped falling. The pain was gone. Soon enough, those who used to know her simply forgot or met their end over the years. Soon enough, she simply became yet another unnamed grave. The creature leaned against the coffin for a while, weeping her soul out for this fallen beauty. One who never quite knew why she was allowed to breathe in the first place. She noticed a pendant that had been hidden in the flower pot near the coffin. This time since there were no flowers, she could notice the item. As she retrieved and opened it, she realized it was a portrait. A portrait of the one in the coffin. A portrait of a young woman, no older than 29. A portrait of herself. She came to weep the tears for herself, to remind herself that she didn't forget her. She might have found peace in the afterlife, she still was bound to Earth and to the tears she never knew those who loved her would weep. She made herself a promise before she went away. She promised herself that if nobody was there for her, then she would weep. She would weep for her death as if it meant something as if her life meant something and she always kept that promise ever since.

Free from this world, free to be /me/