Bitter Red Wine And The Strangest Of All; Broken Glass

With a broken heart, a decaying body, a self-destructive mind, and a broken pen, my heart is poured onto ripped paper that retraces dead memories. Every step is another crack in the glass until we reach the end.

We can blame these faults on our problems, for they pushed us to the edge. Or we can blame this disaster on time, it makes it as easy to fall from love as it is to fall into its depths.

Pain demands to be felt until you go numb. And even then, its shadow stalks you close behind, in the dark alleys of your mind where there is only your abandoned fun.

Tattered dreams, meaningless words, and wilted rose petals spilled like bitter, red wine laced with arsenic across the creaking floorboards. Walls start to speak the exact words that you would rather not fathom or even wish to ponder. But, my dear, you must realize that this labyrinth is but a maze of suffering and disappointment that we all endure and its camouflage is the word known as “life”. And that word is the one in which we all try so hardly to make the best of because we adore the thought of a chance to make something of ourselves, but in it hides our fears of the world after and the unknown. And in these fears, and in our suffering, that is when and where we find our strengths.

Untitled Questioning. By: Kara Rae

    I cannot help it if I am not perfect, I just want to be the person you are scared to lose. Maybe that is not what my purpose is, but if not this, then I am lost in the labyrinth that is known well as “life”. Just save me from myself so I can live a life that is worth the space.

    Tell me how to pull myself above the tide, I cannot hear the startled calls anymore, so tell me how to get rid of these morbid thoughts that haunt me in my dreams. So many memories from the not-so-far-away past, yet I find myself unable to delete the evidence that it actually existed at some point in time. So tell me how to pull myself above my own tide.

     For I am drowning in my own little puddle of crimson rain, slipping swiftly from reality’s grasp and unable to pull my head out of the clouds; I am starting to find peace and warmth in the thought of a dream that does not show a cliche “forever” that comes to a sudden halt. 

Wilted Petals And Morbid Dreams

I could see a dim light glimmering in the water above my head. My vision was fading and every inch that I sank deeper into the ocean’s cold, dark abyss; I could feel the pressure in my head increasing. I only had a few small breathes of air left in my worn out lungs. As my body fought for oxygen, small gasps of air escaped my lungs through my mouth in a muted panic as I realized what I had done. The anchor pulled down roughly at my ankle, I was like a balloon attached to a paper weight. I glanced up slightly at the dim light once more, and then out at the calm, yet violent ocean that had consumed my body as if it were a pill. Shortly after, everything went blank.

The feeling of being alone is often described as drowning whilst watching everyone around you breathe. People are ten feet away, but they feel as if they were ten thousand. You feel like the one wilted flower on the bush that everyone walks by without a thought of you even tracing their mind. I was that flower. The walls had become my only friends. My shadows mocked me, my reflection judged me, my skin was cut to the bone, and it was smothering me like a pillow. The air I breathed was full of oxygen, yet it did nothing but suffocate me. For as long as I can remember, I got my little piece of happiness through kissing a blade. I longed for the feeling of starvation. I craved pain.

When anchors are tied to your ankles, how do you rise to the surface?

When scars litter your body, how can you wear them with pride?

Reality could slip through my fingers easily and with little effort. Numbness is all that I could bear to feel anymore. Emotions and feelings were too much for me to wrap my brain around and wouldn’t stay constant enough for me to control. Everywhere I went felt like a never-ending alley way that led nowhere. Most people would absolutely despise that feeling. However, I found peace in it. I adored it. I got used to it so much that being around people made me uneasy and scared.

At school, I would walk down the halls and around me, faces blurred and words seemed to flow together. I saw people only as clones. One day, my eyes caught s someone who seemed to stand out above the rest. I had no idea what it was, but this person seemed so different and just… perfect. The feeling, or rather the craving, to continue my destructive ways slowly faded. Self-destruction always seemed like such a pretty little thing to me. I wilted my own petals and regretted it only to a certain point; at the same time, it was my escape from reality.

Now, stuck in my head, I cannot escape. Dreaming is my wasteland, my retreat from the real world. In vivid nightmares; I find myself.  I drown, I pull the trigger, and I step in front of the train. Humanity is not real in my dreams, and with humanity comes death. When your worst fear is life, how can it come to life in a dream? Before I drift off to sleep, I close my eyes and relapse. I kiss my razor once more; another wilt in my petal, another river on my skin. My mind is flooded with thoughts of the previous year. I have gotten better, but have not quite recovered.

The dim light in the water pulls me out of the abyss and frees my ankle of the anchor. My consciousness reconvenes; I can feel the pressure slowly leaving my head. As I come out of the water, I inhale a rather big breath of oxygen. I cough up all of the water and I am pulled onto a small raft. My vision blurs and when I come back, I no longer feel trapped. I feel free. Coming out of the darkness never once ran through my mind as reality. Not until now at least. The oxygen is not suffocating me anymore; my skin is not smothering me. My shadows do not mock, my reflection does not judge, and the walls no longer speak. The loneliness I felt was a mere idea in my head. My thoughts were drowning me, not an ocean. Ideas and thoughts can change a person for the better or the worse; people can push you in a certain direction, but you choose where you stand.

My Bittersweet Retreat By: Kara Rae Holewa

                My retreat is a world beyond the skies. To many people, it is fake, but every aspect of it seems so real to me and after a while of being there, reality slips through my fingers and is replaced with a version of it that seems so much better than life ever could be. I control every little detail in this world. I am nothing more than a dreamer, but my dreams become a new reality with a flip of a switch and a little shock.  It is usually a fun and beautiful world, but as every good movie includes, there is a crazy, and bittersweet twist to this pill that I must swallow. This world is not reality, it is much more fragile. My mood can destroy the elegant beauty with just one bad thought.

                Years ago, I would sit in the cotton candy- colored clouds and have music coming out of the sun like rays of light. I would spend my days drawing, making music, learning, writing, and laying in a field of flowers as I gazed out into the horizon; it was the best part of my day, my reason to live and the most beautiful thing I had ever laid my eyes upon. I was at peace with myself and the world.

                Today, the story of my dreamland is the opposite of a wonderwall. I feel as if my mood is a pebble falling into a never ending well. I feel so lonely and it gets worse as the days slowly pass by. My world is caving in on itself and its elegance is fading while the colors turn to grey. Progressively, my mental images of reality grow darker. Now, when I skim the never ending horizon with my eyes, I see gray flower fields that are slowly burning. The music sounds only like a scratched record that is stuck replaying the same ear-wrenching sounds over and over again. The, once, cotton candy clouds are now blood red and instead of being fluffy, they are cracked glass that could fall down from the sky at any given moment.  The sun is black, it sends out gray rays and any sign of happiness has been sucked out of this world.

 As much as I try to change my world, it stays the same. Dark thoughts have completely consumed my mind and it is as if there is absolutely nothing that I can do to change them. I fear that if I do not fix it soon, my world will be the death of me.

I decided to sit down on the glass clouds, I tried to clear my mind, but I could not seem to find a way to stop my thoughts in their destructive path that might soon lead to my fate. At this moment, I just give up, I pulled my knees up to my chest, wrapped my arms around them and rested my head on my knees as I let my tears pour out of my burning eyes and run down my face. As they hit the glass, my tears burned through it like acid and turned to flames upon the field below me. Nothing could get any worse, I was on the verge of purposeful combustion and I did not want to have to push myself to bear the pain that I felt inside for another day. I blamed myself for letting this world turn to hell.  I was done with the thoughts terrorizing my mind and controlling me and I just wanted to be free.  

Psycho Mulregard by: Kara Rae

      Old, strange, and a little psychotic, Mr.Mulregard. He was frowned upon; isolated from the world because of what is labeled “taboo”. To avoid staring eyes, he lived on the outskirts of town. He lived in a place referred to as “The Damned City”. There was no city occupying the area, it was actually just a dessert. Going on for miles, nothing but dirt and dead plants. No one was sure how the game generated, but it did and it stuck.

      Mr.Mulregard lived about seven miles into the dead city. Once a week, he went into town for mandatory groceries and appliances. As he walked, he could feel people staring at him. He felt as if his soul was being abducted and the pedestrian’s eyes as they passed were the aliens. Though he lived alone, he was not actually alone. He had a pet skunk. A stuffed skunk, yet he treated it the way a “normal” person would treat a living dog or cat. His skunk’s name was Rocko. Mr.Mulregard had found Rocko dead in front of his house, so he had Rocko stuffed. Rocko was Mr.Mulregard’s best friend. Rocko had a pair of roller skates that Mr.Mulregard fastened onto his feet every time Mr.Mulregard went to the grocery store, that way Rocko could accompany him. This was not the only reason Mr.Mulregard was frowned upon, he had a glass eye. Not because he needed it though, he wanted it. 

   Most people had said Mr.Mulregard was merely a psychopath and if you went into town, his name was more like a sin. You would have to go to the nearest church and be baptized if you were to do as much as even saying his name. If you did not follow through, people might have though that you had caught his illness. His glass eye and Rocko were not the only things making him an outcast in this cold, dark world. He did not have a leg for the same reason he did not have an eye. His name stood out as the epitome of bizarre. Every corner of his house had a stuffed animal that was dead, yet seemed so alive. His house had a huge oak tree in his front yard, the kind you would see in front of a haunted house in a horror movie. His house looked old and as if it had been burnt down, then built back up with the same wood.

   It’s not because he is missing a leg, has a glass eye, or even that he has a stuffed skunk as a pet and best friend that people do not accept him. It is simply the fact that he wanted these things and expressing his desire even mildly was enough to become an outcast and shunned from society. But his thought process was nothing even remotely similar to their’s. He believed that he should not be above anyone else and he wanted to see for himself what it might be like to be blind and an to be an amputee. He did not want to be completely blind or a full amputee though, so he cut off his left leg and gouged out his right eye.

Emma by: Kara Rae

I’m running through the woods, it’s cold and dark, I’m guessing around midnight. The small slivers of the moon peeking through the low, smoky clouds are the only light to lead my path. I’ve been running for 562 seconds. I can feel him, it, running close behind me. It’s heavy footsteps are taunting me. I stop to catch my breath and turn around to see it hovering over me. It’s wearing a long, black cloak with a hood that reminds me of the Grim Reaper. Spiders are crawling out of it’s body from it’s eyes, nose, and mouth.

I suddenly wake up, breathing heavily, and sweating. As I sit up quickly and wipe the tears from my burning eyes, my nurse rushes into my room, followed by her assistant who is holding my, old, tan, straight jacket. This is the third time I’ve had this dream this week and I can tell by her face, my nurse isn’t pleased with me.

My room is dark and cold, number 317. Sally is my nurse’s name, and mine is Emma. Sally is 45 years old, she has brown eyes and dirty blonde hair that she usually wears up in a bun, she is married, but never wears her ring because in a mad house, they’re against the rules. Sally dressed in a gray dress that went down to her knees and standard nurse shoes that looked rather comfortable. I am 18, I have grayish-blue eyes and long, dark brown, wavy hair, as for clothing, I am forced to wear white pants, a white shirt, and occasionally my tan strait jacket.  I live in the Arizona State Hospital, yes, the mental asylum. I am in here for a few “disorders”, such as Sleep Terror Disorder, Borderline Personality Disorder, and I’m a soon to be Sociopath. It’s been almost five months of strait jackets, medication, therapy, isolation, and hell. All I can think of is Death. It seems so happy and peaceful. I could waste a whole day just imagining a world where my lord, Lucifer, and I reign for eternity in the very chambers of the depths of Hell.

They took away just about everything that they could that had anything close to a point on it and everything that allowed me a social life. Sally said it was for my own good until I’m “better”. But besides death and life after, all I can manage a true thought of is my blade. I miss it more than anything. The nights spent in a dream of cutting are the best. I prefer to call it a fantasy rather than just a dream. It’s so calming to watch the crimson blood run.  It’s like a play, the blade dances and glides on my skin and the blood river is the price I pay for the beautiful show. I often long for the feeling of the cold metal to caress my skin. The feeling it gives me is selcouth. I have this dream on a regular basis, along with a dream of burning down this damned asylum.

I like to live in my own world, reality is torture. Sally thinks that my medication pulls my head out of the clouds, but all it really does is drug me up and help me stay in my head. I don’t mind it so much anymore. Though, Sally has been wanting to take me off of it because Selfinix is a black market or “street” drug, as she calls it and she doesn’t trust it. She is also against it because it helps me and my lord communicate and it usually scares Sally to the point where she won’t come near my door unless she absolutely has to.

It’s the 21st of September, Lucifer promised to visit me one last time tonight so I really hope that Sally goes home early again.

Sally snaps me back into reality, frees me from my strait jacket, gives me my Selfinix and helps me back into my bed. She, then, turns around and quietly stalks out of the room, turning off the light on her way. Then she shuts, and locks my door behind her, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

36 minutes and 15 seconds go by. I’ve been staring at the old, cracked, concrete ceiling and counting the seconds as I wait for my lord. Suddenly, the door starts, slowly, creaking open. A tall man wearing a black cloak and hood steps into my room and walks up to me. He covers my mouth with his sweaty and shaking, left hand and tells me to be quiet. He slowly moves his right hand onto my chest, pushing me down forcefully and looking into my eyes as if he could see right through me. I close my eyes, I can feel my heart palpitating and I envision it. It’s him. Hundreds of spiders crawl out from his eyes, nose, and mouth and disappear into his cloak. I count to four then bite his hand and kick him as hard as I possibly can, then scream loudly as he staggers back in pain. He quickly reconvened his strength and sprinted forward towards me. He was yelling at me to open my eyes and to stop screaming as he shook me roughly. I held my eyes closed tighter, unable to move and barely capable of making sound. I counted to 63 then quickly opened my eyes and used all of my strength to sit up as I let out a short, loud, yell for help.

Sally was sitting beside me on my bed, trying to calm me. The assistant was standing by my door, holding my strait jacket. Complete and uttermost terror filled his eyes and was portrayed perfectly on his face.

I felt a sudden, sharp, pain in my right thigh. 23 seconds later, the room was spinning and getting blurry. Sally’s words seemed to flow together and I could no longer understand her. 13 seconds later, it was all blank and nothing but static filled my ears.

I couldn’t tell if it was just a dream, or reality. I was looking into a mirror that seemed to be floating in the darkness and perfectly aligned with my body. My feet were glued in their place. I was staring at my reflection in the mirror, the longer I looked, the more I changed. My eyes went completely black and horns grew from the top of my head. My demons were showing themselves. 49 seconds went by before I realized that my lord was on her way. Slowly, her reflection appeared in the mirror beside mine. Her reflection showed starting with her feet and progressively grew to her entire image. She was beautiful. She had black eyes with red pupils the color of blood, an hourglass figure; she was tall and skinny with long, black hair that reminded me of Betty Paige. Long, curled, red horns poked through her hair. She wore a long, black dress, a silver pentagram necklace, and a crown made from the bones of the deceased.

She started talking within 37 seconds of being in the mirror. In a sweet, calm, voice she offered to save me and take me away from this asylum. She said that I could rule the demons and souls of the sacred fallen angels with her for eternity. She told me that god was cruel, heartless, that he was a coward, and that he wouldn’t take, or save me. He’s fake and she had a place for me when he didn’t. In return for her deed, I had to give up my soul completely and let my demons in control. I wouldn’t be me; I’d have to give up everything.

My heartbeat got faster and my stomach sank instantly and simultaneously. I had 76 more seconds to make my final decision. My heart screamed no and my brain triggered my mouth to let it out in a whisper. I kept repeating it louder as her voice got deeper and more demonic as she seemed to spit her cruel words out. Her image got uglier, she now looked like him, my worst nightmare. I couldn’t take it anymore. I screamed “no”, then punched the mirror as hard as I possibly could. It shattered to hundreds of pieces before me. I soon felt drips of liquid on my foot. When I looked down, I was standing in a pool of blood. I glanced at the hand that I used to punch the mirror and realized that it had a piece of glass sticking out of it. I counted to three, tightly clenched me teeth, then quickly pulled the glass out.

Sally started yelling, my vision and hearing suddenly came back to me. Blood was everywhere and I was standing in the middle of the room, surrounded by the pool of my blood. Sally started crying. Through her sobs, she kept repeating that she was sorry. I didn’t understand why though, she hadn’t done anything and it truly hadn’t hurt me like I was expecting. It was more of a dark adventure, maybe I could manipulate her a little so she can see things through my eyes, I was pretty good at it anyway. Sally grabbed a syringe and walked up behind me. A sharp pain drilled into the right side of my neck, another into my left arm, and one last one directly into my heart. I fell to my knees, then closed my eyes as my weightless body collapsed onto the cold, concrete floor. I watched my entire life flash before my eyes in animated pictures with low, staticy words. I then realized what was happening, I was dying. 23 seconds later, everything went blank and my life was over. The quiet darkness was unbearably beautiful and I was gone.