She isn't drowning in the water of her bathtub, but in an odd sort of way, she wishes she were. It would be easier than this, certainly.
She's watching the bruises bloom, unwanted mushrooming clouds of unnatural disaster that she could never stay a spectator to, and she is feeling herself fall apart and wanting to be anywhere else.
The water turns black, crimson, gray, whirlpooling into the drain and being replaced with speed. Petulant, she wishes that she could be restored just as simply. She can't be, of course, and it's silly, but that has never been much of a deterrent to the black-crimson-gray of the insanity that has colonized her for so long.
Sometimes she blames it on the years, the decades, the centuries she has spent alive when she shouldn't be. She tries not to, though, because all that does is awaken the memories of cuts and cuts and more cuts on the surface of her flesh, and she doesn't want to feel those knives ever again.
They've been replaced now by fists, and those don't feel much better, but still her hands curl and she fills herself with the fire of resolve. It's better than nothing.
A/N: Not particularly cheerful, but I had fun with it.
~Mademise Morte, June 29, 2012.
