Depths Of Despair by Persephone

Depths of despair

I cry out to the cold night shadows, share the tortuous thoughts in my head; they contain a chill that no fire can thaw. Benighted in ancient parkland, knotted roots claw the ground , clinging to the earth in a desperation that mimics my own tremulous hold on this world. Breath rasps in my throat as my brain forces functions to continue, when I so desperately want them to cease. The release of the body into nothingness, a place where no thought or feeling can penetrate; for none exist. I curse Shakespeare and all rote learning as Hamlet’s words haunt my head,

To die, to sleep--
No more--and by a sleep to say we end
The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to. 'Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep--
To sleep--perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub,
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,

I lay my back to the crumbling bark of a venerable oak, flakes of it’s autumnal skin graze my flesh through the thin chemise that is my only clothing. My eyes glance back towards the Victorian edifice that was until bare moments ago my home, my solace, the abode where all love , pleasures and desires dwelt. I sink to the mildewed bed of leaves at the foot of the timeless giant that gave support. I call my mind a liar, fooling me into thinking existence might not end here, now, forever ; I just need the tool to accomplish that purpose that Hamlet so feared.

Inspiration hauls me to my feet causes them to speed one before the other, bare soles on the narrow woodland avenue. The route wends to the water’s edge, a vast lake emerges from the gloom , reflects a million moons in its depths. I sprint apace to greet those cold orbs with my pale moon -drawn skin. Bitter glacial water breaks my stride, I dive; icy arms embrace my body piercing each pore with divine pain. Elation assists me striking out towards the engulfing darkness , I praise this annihilation of all senses and sensibilities. Approaching the point where no more decisions can be made, body numb, limbs leaden and unresponsive. I descend into the arms of the nymph, consumed, departure timed logged as designated by the eternal stars.

Postscript

In the opulent bedroom of the grand Victorian house a body lay bound to the wrought -iron bedstead, his body kissed with bruises old and new. Draped over a lamp lay part of the cause of his demise, a black leather mask, solid and unforgiving. Circling his throat a seamed silk stocking; one he’d removed from her body with deepest love and devotion, offering it to her on outstretched hands. If she could have heard his last words, had they not been deprived of life giving air, she would have heard the response he always gave “ thank you Mistress”.