The pendulum swings.
Back and forth.
Time is ticking.
Sanity is lost.
An unheard scream echoes.
oOoOoOo
She climbs-
each movement the same as the last, a set loop of movements, set to be done in the same way each time. She is tired, tired of the same old scenery, time and time again, tired of the same old
repetition and pattern, forever looping, round and round, never stopping. She wishes for fresh air (
a sharp intake of breath, a unique smell, of freshness, just like the air after the rain), the continuous, but ever changing sway of the trees (
which she'll never see again, never, because of a stupid mistake), bringing a new image, slightly different from the last, forever unique from the rest.
.
.
.
The pendulum swings.
She jumps-
off the uneven platform, built with pixels, shaped in the image of a branch (
how she yearns for true texture and feeling) and begins to drop. She sees nothing (
but the blurring of pixels) and feels nothing, (
where there should have been the wind, greeting her with its usual wishy washy feel). There is nothing, there will always be nothing, nothing but the blurring of pixels as she falls.
.
.
.
Back and forth.
She crashes-
into the ground, feet first (
and, despite all logic, all laws of nature, she is unhurt). Not a single strand of hair has been misplaced, nor a single piece of clothing been damaged. It is impossible,
(but to ignore the impossible would be to refuse herself, her own being) but here, the world thrives on the impossible. She wishes she would at least feel the pain, for pain, at the very least, was better than the emptiness.
.
.
.
Time is ticking.
She dies-
quickly and painfully
(for only dying hurts, only dying has feeling, pain, emotion, passion, life). A tombstone drops out of the air, and she is deconstructed
(pixel by pixel, how she relishes the feeling) and reconstructed in an instant. She cannot move forwards or backwards, destined to float on, ghostly features waiting for that click of an [OK]. Pain courses through her as she is once again deconstructed. She welcomes it
(the pain, for it validates her existence), for this is the only feeling that she may experience. Sometimes, if she tries hard enough, she can pretend that death is not a sham,
and that this time was the last,and that she
wouldn't wake up again, in town, safe.
.
.
.
Sanity is lost.
She listens-
to the soft background music, always there, a constant source of irritation, slipping in behind carefully erected barriers of the mind. It attacks the sanity, and rubs the nerves raw. Once again, she is here (
how could she have been so naïve, hope was for the stupid and there would never be a happy ending) in town, back from another pointless death
(oh no, not pointless. Repetitive? Yes, but pointless? Never). She sobs, and wills her body to sink to it's knees, so that she may curl up into a tight little ball, and never have to see the light of day again. Her body refuses
(for it is not hers, nothing is ever hers) and she opens her mouth in a silent scream. (
I want to go home, I want my family, I want my friends!) She knows that no one will hear, and that even if they did, they wouldn't care.
.
.
.
An unheard scream echoes.
She wasn't the first, and she won't be the last, but she will be the most wretched, most pitiable of them all.
She is a trapped soul, a lost soul, a tortured soul.
She is Contracted, and continues to be, a never ending cycle of re-use, until the power in her body runs...
Fin