Ink

Ink is forever. This is why she loves books, why she hides herself away, surrounded by towers of yellowing paper, her fortress, her solitude, her sanctuary. She relies on what is, diving into the tales of others so that when she does so, she is not herself, so she is no longer alone. But there always comes a time when she reluctantly withdraws from her temporary haven, and reality comes crashing down around her once again.

She believes that ink is permanent. She's right, as always, but in all the wrong ways. It is much more than preserving pieces of information and hiding them away until they're needed. It's used for much more than to get good marks, than sending secret messages that are bound to get you in trouble.

No, you see, ink goes so much deeper. She learned that after the war, the blood and tears shed for loved ones lost, is ink. That no matter how many times you scrub at your skin, it's still there, marking you, telling you how they died and how there was nothing you could do to stop it. Her own scars prove this, his aunt's crude handwriting forever etched into her skin, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. His own arm forever marked with something akin to taboo now and the world turns away in disgust at the both of them- She, loving the boy who had tormented her; he, the girl who he was forced to torture.

The whole world is like this, branded with countless tales from the beginning of time, many of which will stay hidden until it's time for them to come into the light. Most turn away, preferring ignorance, denying the happenings of the past.

She never believed that of all the things she's done, that her words would come back to haunt her most, and him as well. They are both ghosts, merely wisps of themselves clinging to what little they know, to things that have always been. But now, even those are gone.

Childish names and bickering had cut deeper than they ever intended. Even now, she can recall every word, every name, and every insult he had ever spat at her, as if he had done so just a moment ago.

So now you know that it is not music, nor art that lasts forever but the lies, the sins, the hurt and the suffering of the world. And ink- always ink. She knows no greater truth than that, and- for once in her life- does not seek one.

Reviews are loved, the people who write them even more so.

SNO.