Loneliness. One word that describes so much. That’s all I have ever known. The cold quiet shoulder and the slamming of doors. Those who would even deny my right to exist. When I walk down the street, people move out of my way, but I hear their whispers of Luna being a devil child. I hear them, but pass by as cold and quiet as a brisk wind after a long snow fall. Everyone says I’m like the moon, so cold and beautiful it’s almost unbearable. My parents even forswear my being there. I am nothing but an empty shadow to their eyes. They are as frigid to me as I to them. My name reflects it, Luna Winters. My eyes are wide as saucers, filled with stars, colored as the purple of dusk, and my hair is as white as the full moon. So they say I am frigid, but only because their harsh reality made me so.
It is the month of November, the first date of it, and the frosty wind has already picked up. I open my eyes, slowly. I am still tired, for my dreams not even give me rest from the darkness of my solitude. I stretch arms to the sun, almost as if to thank her for another day, for sending away the reminder of my isolation in this society. I throw on my clothes of choice and walk down the stairs. The lady of the house is standing in the kitchen making tea, for they never drink anything stronger, spare at night when they try to disregard my entirety of continuation. I walking in stoically, not wanting to be in the same room as the lady. I don’t call her mother, seeing as a mother cares and supports her spawn, while this one does not even acknowledge me.
I grab breakfast, an onigiri pack and walk out the door. No one has exited their houses yet, and I smile a bit, knowing that I am the cause of their staying. I see my goal, the path to the forest and run towards it, my speed fast and swift, like a bird flying through a cloudless sky. Sometimes I envy them, the birds. They have so much freedom. They roam where they please, not caring for hardly anyone else but themselves. And they have flight. The freedom to be relieved of the weight of this earthly world as soar through the skies as fast and swift as a bow from an arrow. The speed and thrill of flight is enviable.
By the time I stop thinking, I am within the forest, it surrounding me like a protective blanket, the only thing that seems to feel for me. I sit down and eat my nourishment, though it won’t matter. It will just mean another day of living through this torturous existence of lone accompaniment. I stand up and walk to a willow tree by a frozen stream, cold already taken away its vivacity. I place my hand on its trunk. No heartbeat comes from this plant, thanks to the merciless cold that fills the town. She looked to the sky almost noon. She stared at the tree and kept her hand there for a countless time. An eternity passed between them, yet she had never felt anything, while this tree, this simple tree had furry creatures nestle inside it, felt the joy of the stream as it bubbled and spoke to it, the warmth of the sun beaming into its back, the laughter of a child, things I never had the joy of, the warmth, anything.
I break away and realize some time has passed. I run home again, rapid as a raging river. I make it up the stair to my room and slam the door. I then sit on my bed and stare at my hands. Have I every felt anything? Have I ever felt joy, or pain? Have I felt anything but anger and emptiness? I stare at my hands still, willing me to feel something, anything but those two emotions. But nothing I feel still. Now I am angry. Why can’t I feel? Why do I only feel these two things? What’s wrong with me? I grab my pillow and heave it at my dresser. I feel something run down my cheeks, warm and wet. What’s wrong with me? I keep on striking the ground with my pillow, resentment taking control of my limbs. I don’t think at this time, I just let the anger run out of me with each pounding at the ground like a fervent drum beat. After a long time of thrashing the pillow I feel fatigued. I walk to the bed, my limbs limp like the branches of the willow tree. I lay down on my bed and close my eyes. The emptiness is back, but this time I don’t try to fight it, Not at all because I feel feeble against the power of it, like the wind does against a strong mountain. It may chip away at it, but never truly will it kill it. I let the darkness of sleep coming like a powerful tide, and immediately are grateful to be taken away from this to a deep and dreamless sleep.
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