Short Fiction

430.

When the days are bad again, it’s hard to remember how fond of the numbness I usually am. When I can feel everything to the point of suffocation. It’s too much, and yet, everything all at once; to know I can still feel the pain. I lust after it sometimes, immerse myself in it even…and then, in a single breath, I’m carved from stone again.

I can’t remember how long I’ve lived like this—in this terrible silence that swallows me whole with each cycle. It’s better when I’m cold. All the old feelings surreptitiously tucked into their corners. But then the ice thaws and the sadness nearly burns a hole right through my chest.