Violet’s worst fear is coming true before her eyes and she is powerless to stop it.
The fear that she could die and it would mean nothing to the person she loves the most. If she lost this person, she would be devastated.
How awful to find out this love is not reciprocated.
She looks at the empty box of chocolates and wonders why he doesn’t buy them for her anymore. The little things have all but vanished. The romantic cards, the little gestures of love…
She sees it all slipping away. What does he need her around for, anyway? He has his own life, separate from hers.
She has no one. The last one no longer shares their friendship with her. The body has become an island underwater and the villagers are fleeing in droves. Some die. Some just give up on themselves, on her. They leave. They grow disinterested.
She doesn’t know how to build her own life. She has to learn. This is shameful to her. She covers her mouth instead of speaking.
The woman turns back to the darkness for the familiar. For what she knows. He gabs endlessly with his friends and she wonders why he doesn’t gab with her anymore. Not like he used to. Others are shiny and new. She is dull and uninteresting.
Why they don’t share friends like they used to? Why did they seem to separate?
She wonders if it’s all in her head—the creeping tentacles of doubt stroking her brain. Does she imagine this? Her fitful dreams tell her yes, she is right to be doubtful. She is wrong to question his loyalty to her.
The shame drives her further down into the darkness. This is the place she doesn’t want to be, but she knows no other way now.
It’s temporary, she hopes. It is not real. The illusions are just that, and she wants to rip back the curtain to reveal the petty magician pulling her strings.
Where to begin?
The knife. It will cut away at the growing film and grime of rejection and loneliness, perhaps. Perhaps it will just cut.
She tosses it aside. No, it doesn’t work. It doesn’t help. The only thing that will help is embracing the darkness. Let it wash over her like the familiar heat of a warm tub.
Only then will the light, so foreign, become her beacon. Only then will she be able to find her way out once more. But it must be her light. Her path.
Then, perhaps, he will remember what he’s missing, and embrace her again.