Falling by Stella Mira

Falling and Rising

Kagome cannot tell how long she lies strewn on the floor, broken body, broken mind. A broken doll. Perhaps minutes, hours, even days. Perhaps only seconds. That void, that terrible emptiness, burns hotter than midsummer’s sun, compresses and expands to the drum of her shame, the sibilance of her breaths…until she becomes nothing but an outer shell of herself, stretched to encompass the myriad, split fragments, skin welted, bound by lace-like ribbons—so pretty, so ugly.  

I need to move…dress—I need to—need to go home. Slowly, carefully, she turns to her side, winces as the first twinge of pain assaults her, spills from that cleft between her thighs, flows inwards, into the cavity of awareness. She swallows the wetness, the shame, the cold, the sequela of her wretched lust, until she is no more woman, no more flesh and blood—only Void. There is no entrance, no exit, merely disintegration, grains of gold fusing with the ashes of what she used to be before him.

She should weep, she should mourn herself, slay the phantasm of what can never be—and rise. The tears never come, as if she has no right to shed them, to lament her fall, and perhaps she doesn’t. What kind of woman would do this willingly, would plunge into the abyss with no regrets? No regrets. Tears will never come for such a woman. An attrition of teeth, more wetness, more shame, more cold—and she rises.

Time surges onward, days come and go, insidious circles on the clock, full of pseudo-smiles and airy words. Le Roi Soleil caters to its patrons as it always does, Kagome the vessel of its allure, the manifestation of its dark and red but not its gold, never that color again. Miroku is right, more right than he has ever been. He never passes through its threshold, never designates her as his hostess, never uses that private room. The vestige of obsession resides in that room, imbued in its white floor, coagulated with the sapidity of falling. She never takes step in there either, she does not have to. A part of her will always live in that room, ripped and discarded, unwillingly. It is the only way for her to rise, to gather the fractured pieces and bury the gold-tinct ashes.

Reality is a cruel realm to dwell, but hope is even crueler, and so she crushes all hope within her stride. Every night, she walks into Le Roi Soleil, bows and smiles and serves. Every night, she walks home with a little less of that void churning her insides. Every night, except tonight. The strike is unexpected, physical pain on the back of her neck, unwelcome. It hurts for the merest moment—then nothingness engulfs her, crawls into every bend and niche of consciousness, gorging on her nervous system.

No…don’t…need to stay awa—

A scintilla of gold, diluted with the dark of madness, impelling her deeper into oblivion—until nothing survives.

~~~~~

Skye’s Weekly Challenge: Ribbon