When you signed your soul away, you signed mine away with it.
I am tethered: left totally and utterly alone with no relief and no way of knowing if my bonds are to snap or hold.
It's agony and hatred, black, ugly hatred, and regret, and pointless pleading with no answer. It's writhing and twisting without relief. Injecting pure alcohol into my spine would do nothing at all to ease my suffering.
I used to think I could only cry for so long before I had no more tears left to cry.
There lies a wellspring in the corner of my sockets that bubbles and brings forth fresh dew with each and every passing reminder of the grief I wish not to know. Oh, how I would rather cease to exist than endure this boiling tar, this broken, confused, hopeless dream. My hands are too weak even to end my own suffering.
So I continue to writhe and hate until the fourth year is through, or until some unfortunate thing should happen upon me.
Would you dip your finger in a bit of water? My lips are so parched. You don't hear a word. You're too far away.
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