Swallowed - By Black Waltz Omega

Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding.
In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.
Proverbs 3:5-6

There was a white bottle lying on the floor, its cap unscrewed and strewn aside.

A girl stood staring at it in the dark. She had forgotten to turn the light on, or didn't care to bother - she could see it just fine in the darkness, with the light from the hall streaming past her, and the light from the crescent moon pouring in through a window. A shadow, taking her shape and warping it on the tiled bathroom floor, was deathly still, while the pale blue glow settled upon the floor shifted uneasily. Cold, she remembered - the floor was cold.

There was a white bottle lying on the floor. She could not remember how it got there, or where it came from, or why it even existed. Glaring white, a hot star of some matter she should not touch, should not abuse, should not even consider - but she did all the same. Her parents, middle-aged people who went to church every Sunday and Wednesday, and worked hard to support their small family, had always said she had been acting strange as of late.

Just a phase? I do hope she gets out of it soon... I can just see it tearing her apart...

Don't worry about it. She's a good girl, you know that. It'll all be just fine.

Just pray for her.

There was a white bottle clutched in her hand. She could not remember moving to pick it up. The lid still sat in a dark corner, enveloped by the spider webs of shadow. She could have sworn she saw some sort of vermin, a rat perhaps, nibbling at it, but there was no sound, no movement, save for the gentle billowing of the mini-curtains hanging before the window. Illuminated like ghosts, they danced a nameless ballet that no one watched. Someone had left the window open.

She did not remember opening the window. Or the door. Or the bottle.

Somewhere deep inside, beneath the flimsy folds of the pajamas she wore, her heart was throbbing against the constraints of her chest.

There were white pills sitting on her palm. The bottle was empty, so she threw it aside, watched it clatter and roll beside the lid in the corner. The invisible rats scattered up the walls, onto the ceiling, brushed past her feet with the cold pitter-patter of invisible claws.

Just pray. God will take care of her.

Drops of moisture somehow had gathered in the corners of her eyes. From another room, probably the kitchen or living room downstairs, she could hear the sweet voice of her mother calling her name. If it was dinner time, she was not hungry. Her palm rose to her mouth and she tilted her head back.

There were white pills traveling down her throat. She tried hard not to gag on the foul taste, pondering for an instant why she craved them so, or why she dared take so many at a time. Snowflakes, she thought - like how she would eat snowflakes by the handful when she was younger and had dreams to chase.

Snowflakes don't hurt.

A chalky taste stuck to her tongue and to the roof of her mouth. Her hands, shaking, fumbled around the sink and the knobs for the water, but she could not find the strength to turn them.

There was a white hot pain stabbing at her gut, spreading through her chest and head.

God will take care of her. She's a good girl, she's a good girl...

Her mother called again. She could hear her father's footsteps traveling up the stairs, down the hall where the bathroom awaited. His voice spoke her name quietly, gently, as he did when she was a baby and needed comfort.

But she was on the floor now, and she couldn't see him. Her cheek was pressed against the cold tiles, dampened by the tears that contnued to fall with blue light washed over her pale cream skin. Shivers ran through her body and deep inside, from a place beside her heart, she screamed.

Her father was calling for her mother in a shrill voice. She could not see him, but she felt herself moving into his arms, heard him whispering prayers to his God. Oh, so warm...

There was an empty white bottle lying on the floor. Her hand had fallen from the mess her father cradled, bone-thin fingers reaching for it, her salvation.

God will take care of her.