The Scent of Lavender

A Drabble

The feeling of calm swept through my body as I inhaled the scent of lavender, my senses dimming. My arms gripped the pillow tighter, which could be found within the clutches of my arms, as the tingling, numb sensation traveled up to my eyes and prickled at the corners of them. What were they asking me to do? To give way, and let the flood come?

I would never give in. Giving in to pain proves helplessness, and I would not show that I was helpless. Because, I wasn't; I just wasn't.

There wasn't much I could do about the fact, however, that I was curled up on the couch of my home on a Tuesday night, moping over the happenings of the day. Things wouldn't be the same from this day forward, and I knew it -- without a doubt in my mind, I knew it. It was irrevocable.

It was destiny.

My lips curved upwards as I felt the rush, giving in to the lavender. This scent, which was emitting from the pillow hugged tightly to my torso . . . was I trying to console myself? Surely this was untrue, for I needed no consoling. I was fine; things would be fine for me. If I tried, I knew things would be fine.

I pushed the pillow away from me, as if trying to persuade myself that what I had stated in my mind was true. It had to be; there was no solution for it not being. I was not in need of comfort, as which the lavender scented pillow had given me for the time it had been caught in my grasp. A moment later, I felt a surge of helplessness wash through me; weak.

You weak shell, my mind muttered to itself in distaste. You weak, helpless thing. Useless.

And, as much as I tried denying it, I knew it was true as much as I knew that things would not be the same. The only thing that would remain was the scent of lavender.