Downhill Splinters

Oh how far I've come

From a home, now a crumb

A new mask I don

In shedding, it begun

It was midnight; a full moon.

The cities were silent, and the birds stopped chirping. Only the owls and the sounds of the cold breeze would reign supreme across the nocturne. Some were snoring and others were readying the mattresses for sleep.

To close the eyes would be a sign of tiredness— exhaustion from the daily work or study. Seizing the opportunity of Nacht for them to be granted vitality for the next dawn, they'd sing their sorrows and bid farewell to today's journey. More often than not, at these times, the pondering and questioning of reality would almost always come up— and at random intervals at that.

Yet, some question not the world, but themselves.

In another room, one from a hotel located somewhere in a city yet to be named, stood a single lamp that won't be going out anytime soon.

Upon the inside would be an untouched bed— not a single contact with any of its folded pillows and blankets. A single bookshelf with no dust collected; a cabinet that contained a plethora of new-fashioned wear; and a table that seated a lone lady.

Hair as white as the moonlight, draped over her smooth tattooed shoulders. Eyes that stated almost everything stared at nothing— a blank page.

"Diary..." she muttered, her voice almost echoing from the quietude. The girl spun her pen around, making small ink puddles that slowly soaked the paper downward.

"..." opening her mouth to say a word, what could I possibly write, would be the thing she wanted to say, yet couldn't.

Those days were quick and fleeting— too fast. One day they were there, and the next they were off to another. One moment that meant a lot, slowly lost that meaning to her as those indifferent eyes would filter out any remaining part of what once wasn't missing.

Beep!

Glancing to her right, the clock of an alarm— most likely a reminder— would ring its bell slowly. Silenced immediately, her eyes would keep watch of the Tinkerbell before it made no more noise.

Sigh

What could be there to write? Some words of encouragement? A way to tell her future self? Would she even be alive at that future?

"Baahh... It... couldn't hurt I guess..." tilting her head and staring up, right at the moon eyeing down at her with its light. She starts scribbling.

"It was... a weird journey. The first time I met some weird and strange people. Names like Noah, Rex, and the Grandfather. There were initially some unfriendly looks, with Lawliet having this weird aura to him... and that Dragon boy— Deel— with his flames.

Wait.

Stop for a moment.

It's a summary at this point.

Won't there be anything worth to note about? Are there any... unforgettable experiences to write about and keep?

...

"Volstagg was a person I would admire. He's strong and gigantic, but he possesses a noble heart and a gentle soul. His words, albeit blunt, could often dull those with sharp tongues...."

For a moment, she'd pause and raise her pen, trailing off to a distant piece. In a moment would be like hours running at a snail's pace as those eyes would dilate and contract from the flashes.

"I wish I could be like him..." drawing thoughts on the paper as she continued with her writing, "I wish to be as strong as him, I wish I could be a powerful combatant as him. Efficient, wise... and, and..." yet it would stop almost immediately, stuck again in the many spikes.

"I wish I could be...."

Be... what?

Be someone else that she isn't?

Be a person that defies what she is on the inside.

What inside? What could an inside possibly be to an otherwise empty heart?

Only the night heard her plea. And even then, that very night forgets ever so quickly. For all of her troubles, for every time she would muster up any will to go back and dwell further, the more would that very same notion push her back to square one. 

Like waves to a ravishing ocean, how could one possibly row across toward the shore, when a whirlpool of doubt sinks the mind into a deep with no floor?

To live in bliss is to often forget the malicious past, and to shed that very bittersweet would be to condemn every dream that she had. Only the sweet soothing voice of her brother would be the only thing to keep her mind from breaking itself beyond repair. 

But he's no longer there, is he?

No, he is still here.

He's dead.

I don't.

You do.

...

Tapping on creases of the paper, the train of thought blocked to its broken tracks. Falling off into a cesspit, a way her eyes melded with the rest of the background as she sank into her chair with no resistance at all. Unforgiving.

For whatever reason, she would only look back and never forward. For whatever reason, she could only glance at the past yet never move on to the future. But if that very same past exists to mold and forge a singular heart into the realization of said outcome, then... why?

If her life would inevitably meet that very event - irregardless of logic and reason - then why?

Why must there be a reason to experience grief? How could fate be so cruel in using such crude manners that it could leave some like her in a husk? 

Your mind has so many Whys.

Why this?

Why that?

Why everything?

This is the real world.

"I wish I could be..." 

Her palm would open, as the pen would roll on her hand and fall over to her wrist, a thud of it hitting the table.

Some things need acceptance. That fact was true, and any way to refute or twist it in certain manners only defies the meaning of it.

No more.

Please.

"I wish I could be... brave. Brave to face my past; brave to hold my head up high; and be brave..."

Like my brother.

"...to tell the truth."