“Fiction is the lie through which we tell the truth.”
― Albert Camus
Today, I wanted to share with you the first paragraphs of my only fictional short story. I wrote this a few years ago until nonfiction stole my heart. I still read tons of fiction, but can’t seem to write one.
Let me know if you like it in the comments, and whether you want to read the rest or not.
Here it goes:
Just Another Day
A heavy burning pain is pressed against her fragile chest; the shrillness of a shriek for help slashes her heart, salty streams of pearls shower her tiny delicate face; a shallow bubble holds on tightly to its grip on her throat; a blood-rushing wave of loneliness swims in her veins; every cell, embracing her frame, wrinkles with despair.
She shoots rays of light to the gloomy darkness of her nights by sobbing and pouring out her sorrows to the pillow under her head, her only companion.
In the daylight, she hunches her shoulders, caging in the swallowed cries. An iron weight pulls her down every time she marches a step. The thorns protruding from its edges sting her chest, spreading the burn through every living fiber of hers. Weary eyes, pale cheeks, and white lips sit motionless on her face.
Birds are chirping, sun shoots golden rays through puffy clouds, a mild blow tickles the green grass, a halo of home-saturated aroma spreads its steamy grip around her waist.
A sapphire butterfly, with intricate ancient patterns on its wings, bathes in the sunlight. It bounces up and down, imitating jolts of serenity in her body.
There is life in the air.
Her brown hair billows in the gentle breeze dancing around her shoulders. Every breath she takes fills her lungs with an exotic fragrance; the delicious scent of flowers, dipped in ravishing colours, spreading in milky-way-long varieties.
She feels invincible.
She could explode into chuckles and giggles. Her heart sits heavily on her chest. But the weight, no word made up of arbitrary letters can be wrapped around how sweet and comforting the weight is.
Every single beat pours out more joy into the weight, more and more until the joy creeps all over her soul.
Could she be dead?
She is light, lighter than a petal spinning in curves of the wind. In a blink, a crunch of the dead leaf, she is being sucked downwards, as if earth wants to swallow her.
Falling and falling, with no bottom, no end, no smacking onto a hard surface, only drowning in the hollowness.
To be continued
Read the second part here.