Threadbare

Running on fumes has been a mainstay in her life for so long, it was second nature. Her every decision and choice led to an outcome expressing scarcity or an abiding emptiness. Her near-anorexic body hid the open truth of lacerations—the ups and downs, worry, and mental exhaustion. She had gone through it all alone.

Her gashes were more like cuts bearing resemblance to deep knife incisions from a taxidermist’s set. In her mindscape, there was this running theme of taxidermy that somehow condoned the pain marks and other telltale signs of her strife.

~ mindscape

She believed that, like this art of preparing dead animal skins by filling them with special materials to show life, her very lifestyle was doing the same. The facade of her lifestyle was illustrating to whomever that the life seeping through the carrion that holds her essence is inanimate. She hoped her very existence would show to whatever audience at any time that everything she did, full of life, was real only in appearance. She was, after all, trying to cope.

Many times over has she shed tears so inconsolable they left her threadbare. She cannot count the number of times her makeup has been ruined. It was almost certain that life, at every given moment, was going to be drained out of her.

She had fought so many losing battles and had managed to survive each one. How did she do that? No one knows. She could pass for a decorated soldier. Pretty sure only a handful of soldiers could hold a candle to her laurels.

It was just yesterday it was brought to her attention that her weak constitution was due to her absent mother’s recklessness. She had been embroiled in a heated argument with her stepdad. It was quite a shocking revelation to find out that your overprotective mom was once a junkie, hooked on heroin throughout her term with you. “A miracle baby”, they said. She should have died or at best been deformed. She could tell that from her conception till date, it had been her alone against the world. For whatever providential reason, she picked the short stick out of the lot to be on the receiving end of the longstanding clusterfuck that is life.

She understood all too quickly. Everything conspired against her, and no one was coming to save her. She was her only salvation.

Now she spends most days in the solitary confinement of her mind, surrounded by the many faces from the bus or on the streets. Yet, she remains oblivious to even what one face may appear to be. Most evenings are spent warding off the ghoulish reminders from her past, present, and future. Still, she tries as hard as she can and fails all over again and again and again.

“How long till it’s all over?” She asks mid-contemplation with resignation.

“It looks like this is how it is meant to play out for me.” It is an acceptance of her fate awash with a smidgen of consolation.

At least she will be okay even if she is threadbare because it will end with her. Someone has to play this role in the story being told. She will bear the cross and will gladly be whisked into martyrdom to see it finished.

Just as the moon loses its nightly radiance to usher in a new day, so do her eyes firmly shut to await the nocturne of her existence. She has served her purpose.

Life goes on…