Inspired by the scene in the middle of DHP1 when the Trio are walking through the grass.

my feet dragged across the ground

The pounding in your head clouds all sense and feeling.

Your feet continue on as you yell at them to stop, stopmovingnow.

You're numb. It's almost like you're out of your body, looking down, seeing a sad excuse for a friend. A third wheel. (You're just slowing everything down. Walk faster.)

Cradling your arm and clutching to your black pack (stopitwonthelp), you look up, seeing the sick sky with all color sucked from it. Gray. Ugly. Full of nothing.

You feel the green grass that must have sprouted up in the midst of all this death brush up against you. Tall and thick, it looked like it was thriving. (suchanunusualword) You look away, offended by this act of defiance.

These feelings build up till there's nothing with even a glimmer of hope left. (justadmitityourenothingnow) Dark, heavy, broken, you're empty. (Empty. Just give up and save everyone else the time.)

This journey with these people you have called friends has been too long, and it was starting to affect how you walked.

Your steps, once light, are now trudges, dragging, painfullythumpthump carrying the dirt from many miles ago. Slow, agonizingly slow.

Traveling across your world isn't easy. (Honestly, you really thought it would be?)

Turning around is an option. There was always enough strentgh to reverse your feet and retrace your steps.

And yet the exodus continues, and you continue to hear the voices that are determined to break you.

Something's screaming inside, trying to get out, so loud that you can't concentrate. It's the build-up of the jealously, hatred, insignificance that you knew was coming but never knew it would be this terrible.

It's starting to show that you regret coming along. You almost display the disappointment intentionally. How else are they going to notice that you aren't happy with the way things are going?

Your friends. His movements become bigger each second. He knows he's almost there.

She almost glows. She's maybe even more beautiful than before, even though she wears the scrapes and cuts too. You feel more attached to her, like fate is telling you that you must be with her. (So why is it that every time you go near her, the words escape?)

Your desire grows, expands, amplifiestillitstootooloud for every vainful thing, making it harder and harder to recognize what's necessary.

And so does the ugliness inside of you, consuming all good. (stoptryingtoconvinceyourself justsayityoureunwanted)

You indulge in those moods. It's the only way you feel something.

(Come on, walk. Pathetic. Stop being hopeful. She doesn't want you. He isn't proud to call you a friend. They'd rather been on their own, the two. They'd rather be with each other when the storms hurt your ears or when the cold is immobolizing. And are you there to comfort her, to hold her in the night?)

You stop, giving up.

Your friends continue on, not noticing.

They won't realize if I'm gone, you say to yourself, slumped over and defeated.

And the same voice that told you to stop tells you to drag your feet again, and you comply, your shoes collecting the dirt and your pace slowing.

The exodus continues as you walk through the green grass, counting the steps, wondering why.

Review?