Xinnamin
Mrs. Austin
There's been a lot on my mind as of late, drawing and writing are my escapes from personal stress, and this particular situation called for some writing. If you've read any of my other stuff you know I tend to deal with some heavy psychological stuff, but I usually end my stories with something uplifting. Well this is different. This is me unburdening my mind into some barely coherent expression of myself. With that being said, I hope you enjoy reading dark allegorical prose.
---
“You think nothing you do will ever make me hate you.
You think everything in this world that is wrong or broken can be fixed.
You think I can just forget it all happened.
But what happens if you’re wrong?
What happens when you’re wrong?”
The soil saturated with the rain of a thousand apologies, darkened by the stain. The sun unseen in the forlorn sky, repelled by the gloomy overcast of storm clouds threatening over the horizon. The cemetery blanketed by the shade of the great yew tree, shielded from the view of the unsympathetic world. And through it all, she sits by her love, crying tears that would no longer come.
“It’s all my fault, I know it’s all my fault.
Why did you have to listen to me?
Why couldn’t you tell I never meant any of it?
Never…any of it…”
Wind rustling through the branches, whispering, softly, soothing words of comfort. Leaves slowly falling down to earth, spiraling on the breath of countless remissions. The swaying grass brushes against the hem of her dress, stroking, consoling, embracing. It makes no difference.
“We could have fixed it.
We had a chance to fix it.
But I was upset, you knew I was upset.
Oh why did you have to listen to me?
Why did you let me talk you into leaving?
Why did you let me talk you into getting yourself killed!”
Branches scream with pain, whipped by the force of a brutal hurricanic wind. The leaves writhe under the pressure, the grass pounded under the strain, the sky darkened by rage. A storm, thundering from the heavens, striking with a thousand furies. She succumbs, her hand on the grave, breaking from the wrath of a furious Gale.
“No more tears.
No more apologies.
You think nothing you do will ever make me hate you, but you’re wrong.
You listened to me. Now what do I have left?
What happens now?”
---
“You think nothing you do will ever make me hate you.
You think everything in this world that is wrong or broken can be fixed.
You think I can just forget it all happened.
But what happens if you’re wrong?
What happens when you’re wrong?”
The soil saturated with the rain of a thousand apologies, darkened by the stain. The sun unseen in the forlorn sky, repelled by the gloomy overcast of storm clouds threatening over the horizon. The cemetery blanketed by the shade of the great yew tree, shielded from the view of the unsympathetic world. And through it all, she sits by her love, crying tears that would no longer come.
“It’s all my fault, I know it’s all my fault.
Why did you have to listen to me?
Why couldn’t you tell I never meant any of it?
Never…any of it…”
Wind rustling through the branches, whispering, softly, soothing words of comfort. Leaves slowly falling down to earth, spiraling on the breath of countless remissions. The swaying grass brushes against the hem of her dress, stroking, consoling, embracing. It makes no difference.
“We could have fixed it.
We had a chance to fix it.
But I was upset, you knew I was upset.
Oh why did you have to listen to me?
Why did you let me talk you into leaving?
Why did you let me talk you into getting yourself killed!”
Branches scream with pain, whipped by the force of a brutal hurricanic wind. The leaves writhe under the pressure, the grass pounded under the strain, the sky darkened by rage. A storm, thundering from the heavens, striking with a thousand furies. She succumbs, her hand on the grave, breaking from the wrath of a furious Gale.
“No more tears.
No more apologies.
You think nothing you do will ever make me hate you, but you’re wrong.
You listened to me. Now what do I have left?
What happens now?”
