She Is Pitiful Revised, a bible fanfic

'She Is Pitiful' (Revised)

Special thanks to Pink Parka Girl for the constructive criticism.

Summary: A short story/song-fic of a pathetic, exhausted girl scraping to obtain a valuable something she disregarded as worthless and threw away.

A girl enters the room. It is dark and cold, and without a sufficient light source, one barely notices her face--beet red, tear stained--as she crawls into the blackest corner and curls up into a tight ball, her head buried in the crevice between her stomach and knees. With quivering, white gnarled hand, she reaches out and presses the 'play' button on her cd player. Rocking back on and forth on the tail of her spine, she whimpers inaudibly and softly sings the song to herself.

She is pitiful.

At the bridge of the song, her face screws itself into an expression of excruciating pain and misery. Emotions pour from depths of her heart, spilling tears on her itchy cotton sweater. She reaches for a kleenex--for some tangible form of comfort, for something to hide her state of sorrow behind--and her hand comes in contact with nothing beyond the black hole in the box.

She is so pitiful.

And the song dances on, causing her to gasp and shudder violently, her mind overflowing with heart-wrenching memories...

"It was all about acceleration

All for notoriety

All about the destination

Driven by my own abilities

Rocket shuttered screamed and then fell away

Lift this juggernaut into the sky

Radio waves in the frozen night

Spelling "I miss you"

She remembers the first time she'd been introduced to Him. A survivor of depression, low self-esteem, and suicide--she was an exhausted soldier bathed in blood, hanging on for dear life in the aftermath of the harsh battle. She'd fought—struggled--for her life alone, no friend or family member alongside her to help combat the demons that battled for her soul.

Then, nothing short of a miracle, she'd met Him. Like a doctor rushing to the battlefront where she'd fallen so helplessly, He carried her to a safe place, and tended to her open cuts and wounds, bandaging them with such care. Washing away blood with His salty tears, He pressed her tight in His arms as she wept into the blade of His shoulder. He was the first one to ever love her, to show her that she was worth going back to save. And all was right in the world for that moment in time.

Like a flicker of light

In the back of my mind

And it all comes back to me

Like an overdue sunrise

It all comes back to me

She remembers the early mornings, awaking at the crack of dawn just to call on Him, to shout out His name in ecstasy. His presence was thrilling to her, and she would listen intently, with eager heart, as He whispered His words filled with promises, encouragement, and love. Oh, how she adored Him!—falling on her face before Him, thanking Him for saving her from the misery she'd once experienced.

Words could not explain what He meant to her, how her spirit soared every time He came near. The wounds had healed, and her innocence was restored.

There's nothing like complete exhaustion

The atrophy of complete defeat

The feeling of the world upon my shoulders

And realizing I am incomplete

Well there's a lot of freedom in failure

Of recklessness of weightless abandonment

I remember light coming through stained glass

And it reminds me

She remembers the fall-out. The raging current of the world caught her off-guard and swept her away from Him, unconscious. She tried desperately to find Him once more—clawing, scraping, gasping for breath, each time in vain. Falling to her knees and burying her head in her hands, she sobbed uncontrollably, finally admitting to the fact that she'd lost Him for good.

I remember Your love

Being better than life

When it all comes back to me

I will sing in the shadows

When it all comes back

To me.

The song ends. Awaking from her fetal position, the girl lifts herself off the floor and glances at her reflection in a mirror nearby. Hair is plastered to her cheeks with snot, sweat, and tears. Her dark eye makeup is smudged all over her pale face. Moving from the mirror, her watery eyes lock on a large, smooth hardback book she'd once used daily. Heartbeat quickening, hands trembling with anticipation, she nears the book. She wants with every fiber of her being to open that book, to feel the things she'd once felt. …But she can't. She just…can't.

I can't open the book. I am pitiful.