The Night's Dark Thoughts

(A Short Story?)

She was a pity to look at. A brooding contempt of dire personality, and locks of hair that hide her cheeks. In an empty room she could still slip by. And that was her frame too, as thin and dry as paper. She wished to vanish where no soul can prod, for she longed for the comfort of hiddenness. In her mind she was a phantom who could not entirely disappear, and as is the case, frightened people away.

She has curled under the tucks of an endless duvet staring pointblank into darkness. The minutes ticked and became hours, but neither time, nor she, could apprehend how long she laid motionless. Yet her head was battered from unchecked feelings; the years of posture have finally caught up with her cleverness. Unguarded and exhausted, she could hardly be. Of course she wanted elucidation. But the intricacies of her will have tangled itself so bitterly and dangerously that the slightest move, she fathomed, could tear her. It felt achingly strange to be tied, but that itself was an irony, for nothing was strange except the way she made it so.

There was, fortunately, one tiny spark that snapped her back. She blinked. It was the fate of all stories, intermixed with hers. Stories come like visitors, who though for a moment comes to take temporary shelter, eventually must leave. Some stories can close before it even starts. Other stories last longer than others, when visitors unexpectedly become friends, leaving their markings on one’s floors and staircases and knobs and eventually, one’s own heart. It was the latter which she fearfully dreaded, for she was terribly undisciplined to drive those stories out. After all, is it not easier to part as strangers?

Nonetheless, every story must end, and in their endings are the assurance of an eerie satisfaction. They no longer hold power to tilt her levers. An ending puts a halt to an awkward middle, and she desired for nothing than the finality of her unfastened emotions. If she were younger, she would have had the courage to probe, but the years never gave satisfactory answers, only deeper roots of mystery and self-loathing.

She sighed as the morning bit her, but all the same offered relief. Soon, the sounds and obligations of the day will push her out of bed. But for now, her callous thoughts look to the hope of an ending.