September 30, 2009

October 30, 2007

Everyone just wants to be heard; to be understood. That is the ultimate goal of humanity: to be known.

Why then was no one listening? She had screamed, cried, prayed, begged, pleaded… for nothing. It would seem that no one cared. Everyone was too busy with their own self-importance to be bothered with the plight of one sad girl. Their apathy had made them numb, all the while the pain for her was overbearing, until one day she would wake up, dead to herself and others. No longer afraid of the dark, she would only know pain, and pain would become her voice. One day she would be the very thing that everyone else was afraid of, and she would not be ignored any longer.

She was transformed.

No longer the weakling that cowered in the corner, crying herself to sleep at night, cutting herself during the day, she was the queen of hell- a most terrifying monster, the ghost of torment. A beautiful disfiguration. The beauty mark of a private anguish. Who could now not notice her? She was a blight on Society, the Ugly to their Beauty- or was it the other way around? Either way, they would quickly find that this young atrocity was their future, and this ambiguous marriage between them would be their monument to life.

They had been so busy they had not noticed the young thing in her sorrow. They had trampled over her broken heart, shattered her already fragmented mind, dashed her dreams, and ignored her. With no one to love her, to care for her, she died. Her body was left alive, but inside her death was quick and sudden. Her tears stopped, and she aged. With the body of an eighteen year old girl, she had the mentality of an eighty year old crone. Finally realizing that her tragic tale fell on deaf ears, she ceased to speak until she forgot language. Overcome with a tired sorrow that only the unloved ever know, she turned her attention on making the others understand. If they would not hear her, would not allow her to tell her story, she would make her story, their story.

She tore into their lives with a merciless rage- unleashed; unrestricted. There was no one left untouched. Blood was shed and tears fell like the rain. This first display of violence was only the overture to the symphony, the drizzle before the maelstrom. It would get much worse. Without cease, she tore open their insecurities, playing them like instruments. She ripped open their flesh and stole their still-beating hearts. Blood rained down. The floodgates were opened and the people sobbed until there were no more tears. They felt her sorrow; they knew her pain. They remained mute.

In her rage, she continued to mutilate them, as they had done her. She released her pain, and it slowly ebbed away to a morbid bliss. Caught up in the whirlwinds of time, she aged. She was tired. Having spent all her energy in making them feel her pain, she had forgotten how to live. A small boy interrupted her bloody introspection, and as he bled to death whispered, “I’m listening.” Just like that, her stone walls came crashing down and she stood still, feeling the pain again. An opportunist seized that moment and with a boom they say still echoes through the streets, ripped through her with the steel bullet of reality. Crawling on her hands and knees, she reached the boy and cradled him in her arms. Tears fell down her face and right before she died, she smiled.

All we want is to be heard. To be heard is to be understood which is to be known which is to be loved…

-All rights reserved, 2007, DeAnne Evans.


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