Original Story


“I miss you.”
As she spoke, I could feel the vague allure to turn my head to her, but not enough to cause actual action. Not enough to want to, to need to. Not enough to cause my motor skills to start working again.
I felt as the wind gently blew at my hair, barely moving it, but just enough to cause the light tickle on my face. It was comforting, and torturous. But then again, wasn’t everything.
She missed me. I could understand that. I missed me too. I missed my voice, my remarks, myself. I missed my reading, my writing. I missed the way I used to walk. Instead of this lifeless limp I now occupied. And I missed her, too. I missed everything and nothing. I missed everything and nothing so much it hurt and didn’t hurt at all. I wanted to feel, and I wanted to be numb. But what is numbness when you are nothing, and what is feeling when you are nothing. And what is living, when you are in fact, quite dead.
I felt my voice hitch at the very back of my throat, and for  a second, I gained hope. Hope that I would speak again, talk after all this while.
But it quickly deflated, wisping away so quickly I had to wonder if it was ever even really there to begin with.
And I was left, once more, with the silence that ate me alive, and hurt my ears.


One thought on “Silence.

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