Meat

Silence.

It's not a figment of your imagination, it's true, it's real. Unlike the rest, when silence nears it is substantial. And it's your only solace.

She never really knew what was going on. All she knew was that when people were around and they could jabber on about whatever nonsensical crap their life decided to hand them, acting as if it wasn't their fault, as if some god or fate had not given them the menu before ordering; it was at those times that she knew true silence. That was when the voices didn't talk to her, when the screams died, when her memories of her sister and her mother faded. Then she only knew distraction, could lose herself in bullshit and meaningless crap.

Sad though, that the only time she was truly alive was when the memories were there.

Blood, pain; sacrifice and murder. Her memories haunted her, like some phantasmic orgasm that never seemed to fade. She ran from them, trying to forget the reasons why she could never see them again, why she never could hold them close, why her life now seemed empty and cold without them. Stilled, her silence now lay in the reason why she felt the pain in the first place. Words said in malice, said in hurt against those who meant something. Those who gave her life. And now she couldn't see them.

Strange how a stupid and inconsequential argument can become a major deal, a problem that will make you lose your own sanity, push you to the edge till the only thing that can silence the screams is repetition of your errors. Your own personal demons, colored in secret pantones and deep etched by your private photoshop.

Sick and depraved though you are, your exorcism can be performed quite easily. Simply live. Bathe in it as you were doing, and then use a towel.

She didn't. So she carried on till the next circle became another set of screams, and she moved on, like her own version of a serial killer, murdering relationships with the greatest of ease, and hating herself even more for it. Until one day she killed the last relationship she had, the only one that mattered. But instead of doing it constructively and simply silencing the screams properly, the bullet caused her cerebral cortex to form a gaudy splash on the bathroom tiles.

"Mother, Wife. She will be missed"

You can always tell how much they are missed by the amount of letters on their gravestone.