quiver

The days had been nothing more than a blur. Nameless and faceless, the people she’d come across made no mark on her mind. It was as if they’d never existed beyond those few interactions, beyond the too-few words exchanged. Whether that made her selfish or weak for even considering it, the woman hadn’t cared. Selfishly and weakly did she not care. Of anything. Of anyone.

Days and nights had passed. Days and nights where the same life was lived, the same torture ensued. Is this what she was meant to be? Nothing more than a hollowed body, mindless as she kept herself surviving. The passion to live had disintegrated, the flame of anger had fizzled into nothing—self-loathing perhaps—but there was nothing left that kept her alive. Nothing that made her feel alive.

What was a life worth if it did not give her at least that? What were all the lives she’d lived worth if this was what they led up to? What was the pain meant to be if she was nothing in the next life, nothing and no one?

The woman’s teeth clicked in disgust. At herself, at the world, at the love she’d lost, the love that stirred her world into an uproar to begin with. No anger had erased his mangled body, no passion was capable of making her forget, no kill had satisfied her. And beyond it, she was tired. The threat of her worth had been ever-apparent, disintegrating as the days went by and she’d done nothing to salvage it. The woman of fire had cooled and her serpentine tongue had died, temporarily void of sound and speech the longer she spent alone.

Hollow.

Everything else forgotten.

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