The wallpaper peeled off the walls and fell in small white flakes to the floor. Floorboards creaked and were starting to split from age. The windows were tall and open, framed by eroding wood, and I lay there under one. I shrunk away from the light, from the sunlight that had been flooding the room for hours. My sullen skin, sallow, sickly, spiritless, barely stretched over my thin bones, and my body drowned in the dress I wore, my stockings sagging down my calves… and yet, I felt too big, too large for this room, for my desire to stay in the dark. My head pressed against the chipping wall paint, and I couldn’t bring myself to care if the paint flakes got in my hair. I hugged myself, my skinny fingers brushing against protruding ribs. With heavy, hooded eyes, I gazed into the lit room, observing the destruction around me. Too much destruction. Unrepairable destruction. My destruction. Torn newspaper lay scattered across the dirty wooden floor, the cracked vase shattered beside me. I picked up a piece of the vase and squeezed it tightly, wincing as the shard cut into my skin. I dropped the sliver, letting it clatter on the ground, and lifted my hand slowly, admiring the cut I’d made in my palm. Red rivers flowed down the white underside of my forearm, and I let the sunlight illuminate the blood as it ran down to my elbow. I suddenly felt my throat close and unshed tears burned in my eyes. I wish it’d been different this time.
Kacie Lee is a senior studying biochemistry and English and is graduating fall of 2019. She enjoys writing creative fiction but has recently started to explore creative nonfiction. In her free time, she enjoys composing music and journaling.