//------------------------------// // Not Going Anywhere // Story: The Scar // by FriendlyTwo3 //------------------------------// Chapter 3.7: Not Going Anywhere For the first time in what seems like years, you gently open your eyes with no disturbance. Your mouth opens and your jaw gives a slight pop as you let out a deep yawn. Maneuvering yourself ever so slightly, you look at the clock. 11:30. Sunlight fills the room in a golden light, illuminating your white sheets. Why does she insist on opening that stupid window? With a loud groan, you lift yourself to your feet. The smell of your unclean body fills your nose. Walking over to the window, you put as much distance between your head and your body as possible. You shut the window. The sky is a monotonous light gray. The air feels cold, even with the window shut. The wind is blowing gently enough to not cause a major disturbance, yet strongly enough to blow back the leaves on the trees. Fallen leaves blow freely in the strong breeze. Oranges, light greens, reds, and yellows all blowing softly with nothing holding them back. Cloudburst sometimes wonders why these are your favorite kinds of days. Later… The door closes with an audible SLAM! Your ears fall flat against your head as the noise catches you off guard. You didn’t mean to slam the door; the wind caught it. Your hair is still a bit damp from your shower a few minutes ago, but that’s just another reason you’re out here now: to air dry. You’re wearing the same black jacket from yesterday, but you don’t bother with the hood. The wind feels nice against your wet hair. Your hands are in the pockets of the jacket. The watch on your right wrist beeps subtly, marking the passing of another hour. It is now afternoon. The soothing wind brushes your long hair to the side. You slowly close your eyes and lift your chin to the sky, letting the cool breeze ruffle the fur on your neck as you hum an old familiar tune. All around me are familiar faces, Worn out places, Worn out faces… Bright and early for the daily races, Going nowhere, Going nowhere… The tears are filling up their glasses, No expression, No expression… Hide my head; I wanna drown my sorrow, No tomorrow, No tomorrow… And I find it kinda funny, I find it kinda sad, The dreams in which I’m dying are the best I’ve ever had. I find it hard to tell you, I find it hard to take, When people run in circles, it’s a very, very… Mad World. This was the song. This was the song you sang to yourself in your imprisonment. Ten long months in that humid, hot, smelly, dark dungeon were spent singing this song (at least when you found the strength to speak, which was very rarely). This song reminded, and still reminds you, of how much your outlook on the world, and the world’s outlook on you, has changed. Everything seems duller, more monotonous. The people have grown sourer, even when none of them seemed to have changed a bit. The colors are muted. Music means nothing anymore, except your song. Clothes feel brittle and cold. Water feels thicker than blood. The very planet on which you tread feels harder and more unforgiving. You haven’t felt happiness, genuine, doesn’t-need-a-reason happiness in over ten months. You don’t have ‘those days.’ The days where you wake up on the right side of the bed and just feel good. You just feel like a void. An emotionless, lifeless, self-loathing void. A sudden pressure is felt on your back, wrapping around your sides to your stomach. Someone is hugging you. And that someone is crying. “Don’t do it,” the voice says to you, shakily and breathily, “Please don’t do it…” “Cloudburst? What are you talking about?” you ask, not moving a muscle. “Don’t say that,” she says, squeezing you tighter, “You know… I’ve seen it…” “Seen what?” “I’ve seen the signs…” she says, letting go of you. You turn around and face her. The expression on her face makes your heart drop. Her eyes are badly bloodshot. Her fur is in knots and her cheeks are stained with tears. Her ears are planted firmly to the top of her head. Her usually well-kept hair is tangled and messy. The bags under her eyes show that she either didn’t, or hardly slept at all last night. Her clothes seem to be thrown on, rather than put on. “Y-You’re always… always by y-yourself,” she continues, still struggling to form a complete sentence, “You’re alw-ways sitting in your chair n-not moving an i-inch for hours on end… You’re o-out here by yourself again… singing ab-about dreaming of death… I kn-know what you’re thinking…” Suddenly, it all fits together. “Cloudburst,” you say, your eyes wide, “I… I wasn’t…” Slowly, she moves toward you and wraps her arms tightly around your neck. “Please don’t do it… Y-You’re the only family I-I have left…” she lets it all out into your shoulder, crying and sobbing heavily. “Don’t leave me,” she repeats over and over. “Don’t leave me.” Her words bite deep into your skin. It makes you think. What if you were to do what she feels so strongly over? What if you were to leave? To take your own life? What would the world be like? Besides Cloudburst or the princess, who would miss you? Who would come to your funeral? Who would put flowers on your grave? You’ll find out when you find out. That day is no day soon. “Cloudburst…” you whisper, rubbing your cousin’s back slowly, “I’m not going anywhere.”