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You were ready.

Ready to run at a speed you had never accomplished before.

Ready to rush your head through the glass in a way that no human should have to witness.

Ready to escape from anger. From agony. From pain. From desire. From despair. From remembering.

From forgetting.

You had feared it. Feared it from the moment you heard of a passing.

You feared forgetting. Feared the way you already so easily could not recall the events that had taken place a mere year ago. You feel the tears sting the tear ducts you had previously and quite often dubbed as non-existant. But you knew. Every time you heard the familiar rumble of roaring voices, fighting between family. You knew every time another sigh escaped a family members lips as they read through the mail. You knew every time someone complained about things that shouldn’t be complained about.

You knew every time when you couldn’t do it for yourself.

Killing yourself was a lost option to all those who knew you well.

You feared death, didn’t crave it the way some people did. You feared after death. You feared how others would handle it. How you’d end up.

So you sat through the confusion, yelling, fighting, pain and pleas.

Those pleas fell on deaf ears. The tears were seen upon blind eyes. Those reaching out moments were played into a dummies hands.

You were alone.

The voices surrounded you and you felt yourself crush beneath the weight, the pressure.

Spoken to through everything.

Was a calling card of sorts.

You can’t read it.

Can’t get close enough to.

But you hope that maybe in time it will.

That it will manifest into readable juntions, seeable lines of fate, of destiny, of reason, of hope of anything that saved you from yourself.