02-16-2022, 10:15 PM
It has been years since she first began to hear the whispered voices of the dead, since her waking and sleeping hours became haunted by their existence. She had thought figuring out what they were would have made things easier; she had thought that someday she would learn to coexist in a way that did not constantly leave her nerves feeling frayed and her mind on edge.
In a way, she was right.
Because the exhaustion had worn away at her, so gradually, like the rock might eventually give way to the sea. It had happened so slowly that she did not notice when the fire-edge of her nerves turned so cold that she went numb, or when she no longer could muster a reaction to a whispered voice or a spectral vision in the corner of her eye.
She wonders sometimes if this is what it feels like to be a ghost; aimless, and right on the edge of apathy.
The forest had remained a favored place of hers, though she isn’t sure why. Perhaps because the warm sunshine of a meadow felt as though it was shining a spotlight on all her flaws, that it might illuminate her false smile and deepen the shadows that have taken up residence in her dark brown eyes. Here, where darkness wove through the trees and dimmed whatever light managed to strain through, she did not feel the need to hide.
She is alone, as she always is. The chatter of the horses that linger along the edge of the forest mingle with the threads of whispers of souls, and they all come together to create a quiet hum in her mind that seems to block out all other sounds. She is in her own world, drifting mindlessly through her thoughts, when she realizes a movement out of the corner of her eye is someone very much alive. “Oh,” the word is startled from her mouth as the fog dissipates from her gaze, and she turns those quietly haunted eyes to the stranger's face. “I’m sorry,” the apology is softly spoken, her delicate nose drawn in towards her chest, and anything else she might have said dies on her tongue.
In a way, she was right.
Because the exhaustion had worn away at her, so gradually, like the rock might eventually give way to the sea. It had happened so slowly that she did not notice when the fire-edge of her nerves turned so cold that she went numb, or when she no longer could muster a reaction to a whispered voice or a spectral vision in the corner of her eye.
She wonders sometimes if this is what it feels like to be a ghost; aimless, and right on the edge of apathy.
The forest had remained a favored place of hers, though she isn’t sure why. Perhaps because the warm sunshine of a meadow felt as though it was shining a spotlight on all her flaws, that it might illuminate her false smile and deepen the shadows that have taken up residence in her dark brown eyes. Here, where darkness wove through the trees and dimmed whatever light managed to strain through, she did not feel the need to hide.
She is alone, as she always is. The chatter of the horses that linger along the edge of the forest mingle with the threads of whispers of souls, and they all come together to create a quiet hum in her mind that seems to block out all other sounds. She is in her own world, drifting mindlessly through her thoughts, when she realizes a movement out of the corner of her eye is someone very much alive. “Oh,” the word is startled from her mouth as the fog dissipates from her gaze, and she turns those quietly haunted eyes to the stranger's face. “I’m sorry,” the apology is softly spoken, her delicate nose drawn in towards her chest, and anything else she might have said dies on her tongue.
N A R Y A
![](https://i.postimg.cc/1zM5rMTJ/naryaflowers4.png")
@Volos