The Fabric of Our Souls

by K.M. Moronova

Whoever coined the phrase “sticks and stones” is an asshole, don’t you think?

Words indeed hurt more than stones. Thanks for trying to gaslight me out of it though. It didn’t work.

The pills don’t help,

they never have, and none of my therapists seem to understand why I’m so fucked up.

Avoidance has always been my coping mechanism. If I don’t think about it, it doesn’t matter. My day goes on.

I know what I did was wrong.

But I’m so tired. How do I tell him I want to sleep forever? In a bed of roses or in a goddamn urn, it doesn’t matter—anywhere but here will do.

What’s so wrong with life that you’d rather die?”

Corporate offices are suicide base camps.

What kind of sickness takes your fucking emotions? It’s not fair.

I’m… not well. I don’t expect you to understand but I just don’t want to live. Everything sucks, I have no ambitions, nothing matters… I don’t matter.”

I am a complete waste of space. All I ever bring to others is pain.

“You should wait… and it doesn’t have to be for anything specific. I’m just saying—wait for the weight of the world to pass. Wait until the tremors that wrack through your skull drift into the depths again. Wait until the sun rises, and the light makes you feel a little less pointless.”

“What if waiting doesn’t work?” I whisper.

“You let me know and I’ll hold you until the darkness fades.”

Why do you care if I’m alive?”

“Because it’s so much better to watch things squirm in pain than simply die, Wynn. You’ll let me know, won’t you?”

“What’s with the stone?”

“It’s onyx. Rumored to banish grief. You’ll have to let me know if it works for you—I didn’t get much use out of it.”

“Do you think… it can cure me?”

“No⁠—”

Liar—those rings are all onyx. He’s still holding onto the hope they’ll banish his grief too.

Montana is a good place to be sick. The weather sucks, the winters are long, and the mountains beckon to you.

Mountain sickness is what I’ve frequently heard it termed, where the higher altitudes fuck with your brain and make you depressed.

He’s efficient in that way, at packing people and their things away like crumbs under a rug. It’s what he did with Mom, it’s what he’s doing with me.

“We’re the perfect elixir. I want to feel alive so fucking desperately—I’ll chase the high forever if I have to. Nothing’s worked for me yet.”

“You want to die. I hate that so much, Wynn. The thought of you wanting to leave this world hurts me, but… for the first time, it’s a pain that I really don’t like. It’s disgusting to me that you don’t want to live. You don’t like seeing pain or enduring it, right? You’d rather run away and not feel anything.”

“My cure.”

“I’ll stop you in your darkest hours. Do you promise to do the same for me?”

“Till death do us part, sunshine.”

“I hate you,”

“Hate takes a lot of effort. I don’t think you hate me.”

“You’re vile and cruel.

You’re sick.”

“Clinic...

He’s practically an angel in the flesh with the mind of a demon.

“Do you ever actually smile?”

“I smile all the time.”

“That fake-ass smile doesn’t count. It looks like you have bad gas or something.”

“Sure, you keep telling yourself that, sunshine. Your dead eyes give you away.”

onyx is a symbol of protection against evil. A talisman of sorts.

I want to touch her, to feel her. To bite her and tell her how much her mind repulses me.

“Well, at least tell me her name.”

“Her name is Wynn,”

“And she’s mine.”

I still like to hurt myself—still chasing the high of feeling alive. Nothing’s changed.”

“And why do you think you relentlessly crave this feeling, Waters?”

“Because it’s better than feeli...

“Do you find yourself using it as a form of self-punishment? When you feel you let others down?”

“Yeah. I do.”