Again

Your stomach is hurting. Again.

A persistent ache which doesn’t go away even with the dozens of pills you’ve taken.

You sigh. You don’t want to do this, but there’s no other option.

Slowly you undo the chains that have been wound around you for ages.

You look over to inspect the damage.

Ah.

There it is.

Rejection.

Rejection looks like red.

Red mixed with a lot of black, both coexisting, without affecting each other.

The red is thin, watery thin though it looks slimy at first glance.

It cannot be anything but thin.

It does not cling to your skin as you touch it, for it is artificial, thin.

It smells sour, sour like the sauce in the cupboard you forgot about, the paste which has long since gone bad.

It smells sour, mingled with a waft of ink.

The comforting smell of ink which comes from the black swirling lazily along the red.

The black is thick.

Thick with anger and desperation and hurt...and the words left unsaid.

Those words which will never leave your lips.

The black feels pleasant.

Warm and cool at the same time, like the paint you used for hand art, making messy splotches across the white canvas.

The black welcomes you.

But you cannot stay.

The black is tempting, alluring...

The black offers the one thing which you won’t allow yourself to have - freedom.

You draw your hand back with a gasp.

Carefully, very carefully you allow the chains to wound around.

Again.