This is a short story. In fact it will be a very short story. Probably one of the shortest stories you will ever read, if you do in fact happen to read it. The idea came in a time of boredom in recollection of recent desperation. What kind of desperation? I don’t know if you’re asking that question, but I would if were you.
The subject of our short story we will give a name to, but not a real name because where would the interest be in that? We will name her Desperate, since she is desperate, and desperately finds herself in frequent moments of desperation. There is no use describing her appearance, as it has nothing to do with the point of the story, although she may argue otherwise to the ends of the earth.
Desperate finds herself one day caught in the sickness of her usual cycle, and is having trouble breathing. This is normal to her, and she does not think anything of it until the problem progresses throughout the days and she is soon struggling for air in a way no one should have to. The trip to the hospital is a nightmare for her. Hours of waiting…waiting in desperation for air. Waiting for the jitters of her antidote to wear down. Waiting for the clock hand to move…yet no matter how long she waits it refuses to move. Waiting for the needle in her arm to fix things as it is supposed to.
The night ended in a morning, driving home to continue regular consumption of drugs and relief until she is healed. But she does not heal. Her body slowly regains strength, and her lungs empty. But she does not heal. Her mind is caught in the slow progression of time and darkness that she cannot seem to escape. She fights it through the night, and is wearied by it through the day. The understanding of her plight cannot find its way to the consciousnesses of those around her. They pass her by, unnerved perhaps by her manner, but unaware of her battle. Those she should be able to look up to or look beside herself to have somehow faded into the outskirts of her small mind. It is not her choice to forget them, but they have forgotten themselves to her, and so she has forgotten them to herself.
Could there be any single one who can fix her? Every day and every night of tears will find her searching to new ends to find something…anything to help. She finds small reliefs in short doses, but they cannot be with her always. Relief can treat a symptom, but never cure a disease.
And so she shall go.
She will go on destroying whatever she can find. Her ravaged mind will eat away at anything it comes in contact with, and she will relish the destruction that she is able to repay to the individuals around her as revenge for her hurt. And when they are gone…when every single one has left her, she will turn and she will disappear. No one will remain to grieve her, and no one will consider her loss a loss. She could have been helped.
But wait! In the dark corner of her mind lurks a light that is so small the eye may not see it. It is there. As she falls and falls, deeper into depression and loneliness, the light grows. It grows eyes and hands and feet. And with its eyes, it shows her the worth she has. And with its hands it patches up the scars that cover her. And with its feet it carries her through her storm.
Through the hurt, she has grown stronger. And through the light of mystery, she has been made whole.
