Choke

How did this happen?

You already know the answer to that. A message you were never meant to receive. A call that never connected. You can see all of the pieces, and try as you might, you can’t stop them from fitting together.

And it hurts. It hurts like hell.

Even if you can tell yourself that it shouldn’t have happened the way it did, it doesn’t change the fact that it did happen. Maybe that’s what hurts the most. That no matter if the mistake was made or not, the outcome would still be the same. Someone you cared about would still be dead and there would never be a single damn thing you could have done about it.

But he did send the message to you, and you got it too late, and when you tried to call, there was no one left to answer.

When you found out what happened, it was impossible to process. You didn’t see it happen. The call never went through; it would be so easy to pretend it wasn’t real. But the message was still there, sitting in your phone inbox. ‘Help me, come get me.’ But it said ‘Dad.’ It was sent to the wrong number, it wasn’t meant to be for you. It wasn’t meant to be your responsibility, but now it is and you failed. You have to accept that it is real, and there will always be the thought that maybe there was something you could have done that you didn't and you will have to live with that every. Single. Day.

And all of this for the one person you just wanted to leave you alone.

Well, you got what you wanted, didn’t you?

And now you can choke on it.

Radio Silence

Dead air.

That's what it feels like now. No. No, that's not right. That's what it always was, right from the start, in varying degrees. Just dead air. Static. Radio silence.

But it was alright, for a while. Those glorious bursts of noise; sparks of conversation, feelings, so close, so intimate that they seemed to glow. They made you happy. They made you feel safe, wanted. You lived for that. But it didn't stop the static flooding in. Too much white noise, even among the sparks. You ignored it, pushed it away. You tried so hard to convince yourself that it was alright.

It wasn't. Too much static seeping in for too long. The dead air grew heavy; it started pressing down on you. Too long spent craving those dwindling sparks. Outside noise started feeding in. Too much for you to bear. The silence growing heavier with each passing day as you were forced to listen to all that wonderful, painful noise.

Finally, you couldn't take it any longer. You broke through the silence; you finally made contact. But it was too late. It was too late and you couldn't maintain it. Instead, the silence grew heavier. It crushed you. Too late you realised it, and even though you tried so hard to keep that fleeting connection, it was overwhelmed by the static. Too much for too long. Too little, too late.

More dead air. It's getting harder and harder to hear anything now. The neverending buzz of the static. Noise still feeds in from the outside, familiar and otherwise. It doesn't matter, and it does matter. You're torn between listening and trying to tune it out. It hurts to hear it, but sometimes the silence is just too heavy to bear. It's starting to get hard to tell the difference. It's painful either way, the differences between the pains subtle and indistinct.

Maybe it's been so long now that static is all you can deal with. It feels safe there somehow. It hurts, but it hurts less than opening the channel. Letting all of the noise flood in. However wonderful it may be, you're terrified of it. Too many sounds blending together; beautiful, hideous, tantalising, unbearable noise.

So you hide in the static. You breathe the dead air.

You wish it had been different.

You wish it had been better.

Could you have changed it?

In the end, it could have been your fault. You let the static continue. You didn't break through in time.

Would it have changed anything if you had?

It doesn't really matter now. It's over. Done. Dead air is all that lies in between you.

It ends the way it probably began.

Träumer

I’ve started to hate dreaming.

I dream about dark rooms and cages made of rose vines. Where the air feels like syrup as I breathe and leaves the taste of poison on my tongue, heavy and bitter and dark. Where the tips of thorns graze my skin; feather-light but still enough to draw beads of blood. I am made of glass in those dreams. I am pulled in a dozen different directions. I am lost. I am broken. I am drowning in the dark and the scent of caramel and sweet, suffocating smoke.

I dream about bright lights and castles made of crystal. Where I am falling from impossibly high towers and balconies. Where there are courtiers and jesters and all manner of delightful monsters and I am not sure if I am one of them or something else entirely. I am trapped in mirrors in those dreams. I am forced to run just to stand still. I am confused. I am falling. I am losing myself in dances and impossible colours and beautiful, terrifying eyes.

I dream about glass walls and empty corridors. Where there are clocks surrounding me and time is moving too fast and too slowly all at once. Where I am chased by indistinct shapes with jewels for eyes and teeth and I have nowhere to run to. I am falling apart into pieces of clockwork and porcelain in those dreams. I am terrified. I am dying. I am feeling my legs start to fail me and forgetting how to breathe and I am unable to stop even for a moment.

So instead I lie awake and restless and too aware of the sound of my own breathing and the rise and fall of my chest. And then I am in a darkened room with a cage of rose vines, and I realise that it has started all over again.