End of the Road.

Stranger. Gazing at me with vacant, hazy, gray eyes. Their pale lips quiver, parting somewhat just as a droplet of sweat trickles. The perspiration slips past the upper lip, and trembles down the bottom. It travels a lean chin before breaking apart from skin and plummeting to a sink; water running on high to drown out the heaved breaths. The stranger’s entire face is a sickly hue. Papery. Blue veins visible on a drenched forehead – as well as a point for several strands of thinning onyx hair to cling. This face used to be. . . Alive.



Vision blurs, and the stranger begins to dissolve. Tears boil over, streaming down cheeks and meeting the same fate as that droplet of sweat. They all collapse within the cracking sink, mixing with water, only to be forced down the drain. My fingers curl against the bathroom counter, hands on either side of the sink. My head lowers, chin connecting with rattling chest. My heart painfully throbs, an irregular rhythm a reminder of my mistakes. Every pulsation causes my ribcage to unnaturally lash against lungs, only to send off more pain receptors. A beat is skipped. My legs give a hefty shake before giving in. Bringing me to my knees.

My hands slide off the countertop, fingertips brushing against the cool marble, passing over a forming crevice. Arms fall limp at sides, head still bowed. Each heartbeat is off. Not one corresponds with the next. It’s an orchestra gone wrong. No tempo to rescue the cacophony. Eyelids are suddenly weighted. Filled with lead. They seal shut, plunging me towards recognizable darkness. I feel so sick. Yet. Not.