The Fabric of Our Souls

by K.M. Moronova

My name is Wynn Coldfox. I'm twenty-six years old and I want to die. I want to die. There—I said it. Does it change anything?

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.”

“Liam?” “Yeah?” “If I’m tragic, what does that make you?” I think about that for a second. “Cruel.”

I hesitate before deciding to open up a bit. Why is it that strangers are so easy to talk to? The lack of history, I suppose.

“I saw a young woman. A confused little flower trying to bloom in the daylight when you were always meant to thrive beneath the stars, unlike those around you. You’ve wilted enough for the world. Don’t you think?”

Her mind is her worst enemy and love might be too overbearing on fabric as thin as hers.”

“Yeah, her soul is like chiffon, with plenty of tattered rips and tears. The fabric of our souls is thin and worn. We must be gentle and love tirelessly.”

Why is it so hard to show ourselves mercy? Did a part of me believe that I deserved what I endured, just as Liam does? Why didn’t anyone help me? Didn’t I ask more than once? Didn’t my eyes scream loud enough for those that observed me so callously to stop?