Hopefully, this will shed some light on why the protagonist doesn't let anyone in.


Sounds of that soft, steady spin of tiny wheels rolls into my stream of consciousness, sliding through the darkness, the steadiness occasionally thudding to a slight, temporary stop when it hits one of the many obstacles scattered around the wooden floor. Messy. The house is always messy. There was always the illusion of it being lived in. A stray sock here. Abandoned by its partner. A crumpled magazine there. Collapsed against an empty bowl.

The tired click of heels is deafening. Resonating. As she trudges toward the front door. Each step sinking my soul.

The rolling continues.

It fills my mind, growing, growing.

Sweat beads on my skin, chasing away the sleepiness.

My heart speeds up, the thunderous sound mixing in with the turning of those wheels.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Breathe, already.

Hyperventilating, I jump out of the sheets, landing face first into the carpet, nearly breaking my neck in the process, and jerk my bedroom door open, a sense of urgency, a sense of doom stealing the oxygen away from me.

The wheels still.

The clicks still.

I swear everything stills.

I can't even hear the clock ticking.

All is silent except for the small, broken noises echoing in the background.

Those noises are revolting. Scary. Maybe that's what driving her away. But...

How?

How do I make her stay?

I stand at the door, unable to go anything further.

My feet won't budge.

I open my mouth and then close it.

I don't know why I couldn't say anything.

I should say something.

I want to say something.

So

So

badly.

But...

There's nothing I can say. Nothing that will change anything. I have nothing.

The woman sighs softly. But it sounded so heavy. Why was it so heavy? Why does it sound so... sad? What can I do to make her smile? Why is she never happy with me?

The strange, strangled noises were getting louder.

She turns around slowly, her fist leaving the suitcase handle, as if she was tired. Will she stay for a bit longer if she's tired? The sinking feeling tells me otherwise. For some reason, she's blurry, but I still try to look at her. I see the lines around her eyes are deeper, more defined. Her eyelids are drooping. She has no problem keeping a straight face despite the disturbing, approaching cries in the distance.

It's getting closer.

How did she not hear that?

Is it going to get us?

Is that why she's leaving?

What chilled me to the core is the uncertainty in my mother's eyes.

This.

This woman who always, always is so confident, so strong, so determined in everything she is and does. This woman who will always leave me coughing in the dust, never looking back as she marches to her goal. I knew she would disappear one day. I always knew that. She was always meant to chase after her dream.

But she can't do that with a kid around.

tick, tick, tick

The ticks are like scratches, scraping against my eardrums.

So loud.

My hands cover my ears.

And it's always here in this empty house. I hear it no matter how much I stuff my ears. I always hear it. Sometimes, I wish I could smash the clock in.

I can't though. She bought the clock with money. To her, money is really, really important. I know she wants more.

And I...

I can't give her more.

All the things I stole and got away with... I'm smart. I always get away... they weren't enough.

So I say nothing as I counted the days, hours, minutes, waiting, waiting, just waiting for the day she vanishes with whatever's left of me. Each night, I lay awake, eyes bloodshot, wondering when she will leave, which day will be last, when I will be alone in this cold, cold world. In the past, I used to have nightmares of her leaving. I would scream and cry and kick. And then I'd jerk awake, choking on a sob, making strangled sounds, with my arms frantically reaching out for her, my body completely drenched in sweat.

She was never there.

However, now, I already accepted it; if I didn't, I go crazy.

That's why I don't try to stop her. I can't bring myself to ask her to stay.

I can't give her anything. Not even the money she loves so much.

She smiles at me, losing the poker face.

"I don't regret you."

The tormented noises cease.

"Don't make me regret you."

I take a sudden step back, my legs wobbly.

"Just remember what I taught you. Don't trust anyone. All they want is what you have. Don't let go of it. Once they have it, they always will leave. So take what they have and drop them before they drop you. If they are useful to you, as long as you play nice, they will follow longer. Just be careful. No one stays."

She gives me a small, sad smile.

Then, her hand curls around the handle and she leaves, the suitcase rolling behind her, its sound forever stuck in my mind, getting louder and louder in my mind, as the clicks get softer and softer.

My knees buckle.

I sit on the floor as the noises return and turn to wails.

No one stays.

-x-x-x-

Present time

My mind feels like it was going to break. It is already cracking, splitting, and crumbling to ash. It's already too late. Too late. Yet my arms wanted to flail out, trying to grasp onto whatever comfort they can find. I wanted crawl toward her. I wanted her.

But she didn't want me.

I can't move. I don't move. I shouldn't move. But I can't control my body. It starts shoving. Punching. Kicking. Trying to lash out. Trying to push everything away. It's so weak though. I'm so weak.

I wasn't good enough.

All there was is pain. All I feel is pain.

I'm not good enough.

So much I was gagging with it, spitting out the most pathetic sounds known, my entire body trembling and shaking violently.

I'll never be good enough.

Through the haze of agony and darkness, I wanted to cry; I wanted to shriek to anyone, anything, beg for it to all stop. Maybe if I scream enough, it'll stop.

Oh, fates, fucking stop.

My hands turned to claws. I clutched at my escaping mind. Scratching. Scratching. Trying to stick my nails in to get a better hold. I could feel the skin ripping. I could feel the blood bubbling to the surface.

But I didn't care.

This didn't hurt.

Not at all.

Just my sanity,

Give me my sanity back!

Make the memories stop.

Please.

Liquid burns down my cheeks, but it still hurt. It still fucking hurt.

Slipping deeper and deeper into unconsciousness.

Make it stop.

Hurts.

Burns.

Cold.

Cold.

IwantherIwantherIwanther.

Make that want go away.

"...eir!"

A voice cuts through the haze.

"...eir! Deir!"

...Why? Why does she sound like that?

"Deir! Deirdre!"

Then, it hits me. Haven's crying.

My eyes shoot open, pushing through the suffocating heaviness. My vision blurs and I swear the world spasms and tilts, as some sanity returns, but I still try to rush to her with my stiff legs, ready to wrap my arms around her and viciously snarl at whoever's making her cry, but I can't move. I'm trapped in warmth and arms. Haven's hugging me.

It feels... safe?

I blink and look around. She's not in apparent danger. We're just on the carpet of my living room. I can't stand wooden floors.

Ha. Well, it appears I'm calm enough to half-heartedly joke a little.

She grabs my face. "Deir, for the love of all that's love, please tell me! What's making you cry?!"

My heart hardens. Why do you care?

Don't trust.

I could feel my eyes turn cold.

No one stays. Not even the one who birthed you.

"Deir?"

I just stare.

"Deir, you can't keep hurting others... if it'll make so guilty that you cry." Her whisper keeps cracking. She sounds so sad. "I got him out of the house after he woke up... but a few hours after you fell asleep you started screaming. I..."

Her voice breaks. She flat out sobs.

"I... I've never seen you cry like that, Deir..."

No visible response from me. Giving to people what they deserve doesn't have the capability to elicit tears from me. They will try to do the same to me.

But...

getting attached will break whatever's left of me.


Deirdre. This Celtic and Gaelic name = sorrowful/raging/fear

A lovely present and future to you. May the dreamland tree be kind to you for all of your nights.