Every day that passes rips me all the more apart. Those cruel words, the loneliness, self-abhorrence, all knives piercing to my core, draining me. I'm becoming weaker, more weary; the more I ponder my life, past and future, my present is just that much more blurred. What am I, and why am I here, if not solely to destroy and be destroyed? I step back in an attempt to "focus the lense," so to speak. All I see is darkness-before, behind, beside, all around-enveloping, invading the whole of my being; animate, sentient, darkness. I reach out my hand and a tendril of this darkness lightly lands in my palm and it feels..familiar. It's not hard to recall the first time I felt this, it comes to me in an instant, this most familiar feeling I've ever known.
17 July, 1993. Eight days later I turned five years old, but she will be four forever. As will the part of me that kissed her goodbye before we laid her to rest, my innocence next to her in that casket.
This darkness has been growing since that day. I've been feeding, nurturing it, albeit unknowingly, all these years. A knife: every insult, all the abuse, every single time I gave in and believed I deserved this agony, until I loved and craved it. Growing with each knife thrust through my heart and soul, this darkness is now more than I could ever have imagined: more deep, more massive, more powerful, more indomitable.
I came here to face whatever was wearing me thin down, defeat it so I could grasp the light, find hope for morning. But, oh, this darkness, it feels like home. So pure, so peaceful, so. . .