The wind threads through my fingers and wraps around my body, leaving a layer of frost on my skin. It’s numbing, yet that feeling comforts me. This cold, this lack of feeling, makes the world seem peaceful.
I’m in love with this numbness, this physical manifestation of apathy.
Sometimes, for a few seconds, I close my eyes and listen to the sound of dead leaves crackling under my feet. When I open my eyes, there’s a baby blue sky filled with soft, cottony clouds. It feels like an end of a story, a perfect clichéd tale. That’s when I tell myself that I am content with life and take another step toward home. The wind brushes against me again and the facade is blown away.
Little hisses wisp around my head, telling me truths I refuse to admit. They remind me of those little blue pills sealed in an orange container with a white cap. Numbers were engraved on the back of them, marking their artificial power. I look at those pills every night; my fingers pressed against the white cap before screwing the bottle open. And, every night, I let it happen – I let it take my place.
The pills were dormant at first, or so I thought. The effects were subtle; I didn’t notice them until I asked myself if it was me at an instance in time. There was no mirror to look at, but the smile on my face told me all I needed to know. Those expressions filled with lies, with a happiness that wasn’t my own. The cynical jokes and smoothly stringed words, which I had no feelings toward and said for reasons I never knew, all of which were never my own – they were the pills’.
A breeze passes; a shiver goes down my spine as I take another step forward. I look at my hands as if they aren’t mine, observing their curves and indents. My gait quickens and I reach home; looking over my shoulder, I see that the sky is now azure – cloudless and clear. My heart softens.
Under my breath, I ask myself who I am.
And in a whisper against the wind, I reply, “I am.”