Don't Forget

 In an elderly, compact room, crept creatures of darkness who feasted upon those who lost, painting the wrinkly skin in crimson. Vines and flower buds hid in between the cracks of the floorboards, praying that the monsters would never detect them. One by one the victims fell, drenching the wood in their liquids, rotting it, releasing a putrid smell that drove them mad. Some ended their lives, others waited for the master to do the beheading, while a few begged to play once more. The number of corpses grew creating a grand pile that even the master didn’t know how to rid. Eventually, the monsters grew uncontrollable and nature feared she was next, but the master answered her prayers.

 Sitting on the table, a flame slept soundly in its enchanted-glass box, keeping the demons lurking in the shadows at bay. They watched as the orange tip flickered with each turn in the forest green, waiting for the moment it drowned in that rich liquid to slaughter the next victim that emerged from the ancient door. The demons licked their lips, clawing at the decomposing walls as they inched closer, closer, closer, to the diminishing light. A little further. Just a tad bit more. They flashed their fangs, but the light shot upward, sending them growling back to their corners, cursing the new comer for stealing their freedom. Overjoyed, the warmth of the pine scented candle lunged forward embracing the young man in that dark room that once held such light that even the sun couldn’t compete. He shivered at the touch of that tingling warmth; that suffocating aroma. The scent retreated, sniffling. When it faded, the original occupant floated by, scrunching his nose. The demons laughed at such cruelty while the vines sympathized with the longing in his eyes.

With quivering lips, he stepped towards the beaten table, watching the child squirm from each movement, wanting him closer, wanting him far. Resting silently on the old oak was a neatly folded piece with a name written in a bold black. He stared at it as if it were a drug and he an addict. The longer his chocolate eyes followed each curve, the more his fingers twitched desperate to snatch the high. To fall deep, deep, deep within the ocean of self-pity and drown in regrets. To shed a million tears knowing the hand would no longer be there to wipe them. To sit in that room once more, holding one of the great works of Edgar Allen Poe, surrounded by rainbow colored fleece blankets and throw pillows, waiting for them to turn that knob and fill that mediocre studio with their radiant energy, but that was only a wish. One that would never see the light and that pierced his heart and he loved that agonizing sensation because it kept things real. It kept things from spiraling into a fantasy, but he craved those illusions, those possibilities, those aches because even if they were far fetched, impossible, it made him feel the slightest bit whole. Like there was hope, even if a sliver, but those elegant curves told him otherwise. Yet, even with the warning, his hand was hungry, ready to lunge for the note. Instead, he shoved it against the jagged edge of the table, slicing it open. He watched as the crimson trickled down his arm soaking into the floorboards leaving a dark stain as proof of its existence. He didn’t scramble to patch it, scream, or panic. No, no, no. He only watched, relieved that his mind preoccupied itself with a different task, but the blood would eventually stop, the control center would return to its previous mission, and that terrified him to the point he wished to die from the simple cut. He desired such an end but he didn't. He feared one. He loathed one. He cowered from one because leaving alone rattled his core. Being buried six-feet under in a claustrophobic box to be torn apart by worms until all that remained were bones chilled him. The possibility of being another forgotten memory killed him. He didn’t wish that upon anyone because he feared for them and that suffocated him.

He stared at the letter. Read it. End it. Be done with it already. It won’t matter once you leave. They won’t remember. “No.” He tossed the chair across the room, sending the child cowering in a corner of the glass cage. It watched as he flailed about, creating holes, shattering furniture before falling to his knees, weeping, shaking his head to drown the voices. No matter what he did, they wouldn’t leave him alone until he lay in a box or roamed the streets drenched in guilt. The light twitched and he crawled towards the table reaching for the note freezing at the fresh ink on his fingers. Bmp, bmp, bmp. He took a breath and opened the note.

Please...leave.

Two simple words written with such precision and a world of meaning. Two words that tended to be accompanied by rage, irritation, or sadness, but to him, they were followed with a faint smile, a fragile voice that wore a tough exterior, and a pair of glossy emerald eyes. At the bottom of the message sat a slot for him to sign. A simple swipe and he’d win. His trembling finger hovered over it for eternity but fell back to his side.

The newborn tilted its head, confused. The words pleaded for him to sign, to be free, yet he didn’t. Why? Freedom sat a stroke away. Life awaited that single drop. Death licked its lips waiting for that empty space to remain and he...only pulled his head back and smiled wearily, holding the note close. His eyes gradually lowered as he kissed the top of the delicate paper. A tear rolled down his cheek as a faint stream flowed through his lips. The orange ball stared at him, dumbfounded, wondering why he didn’t sign. Why he refused to live.

It pressed its citrus face against the glass, finding the answer. Nestled in the man’s arms was a girl with a tearful smile, holding a note with an empty slot.