The girl who pitied the moonless sky

A cold gust of wind, carrying an overwhelming scent of bitterness and grief, entered the room through an open window. She entered the dark apartment, closed the door behind her, and slowly walked over to the window in her light gait. She leaned against the windowpane and looked at the sky, searching for something. The moonless sky was a mournful shade of black. Not a star had come out that night. Silence lay like a thick, impenetrable veil over the face of the earth. She regarded the sky with pity. She stood at the window for many long minutes: a sad figure surveying the night in a hopelessly uncaring world. Then, she turned away from the window and sat down at her desk. The desk, with countless things strewn all over it, didn’t seem to belong to the well-ordered room. But, it was the only place in the world to which she belonged. The piece of furniture was her home.

She picked up a half-read book from the desk. She flipped the pages of the book in the dark. The texture of paper brought a faint memory from another age to her mind. She picked up a pen from the desk, held it tightly in one hand, and tried to remember something. Tapping the pen impatiently, she tried to recover a part of herself. But that part of her belonged to another time, and another life. She felt a deep sense of loss for all the things that had been taken away from her. Feeling sorrow rise within her, she threw the pen and the book carelessly on the cold floor of her room. Her mouth was dry. She picked up the cup of coffee that stood on the desk, and took a sip of the bitter liquid that lay fuming inside it. The familiar taste calmed her. For a few moments, it consumed her attention and she took no notice of the question that was forcing itself upon her. She breathed deeply and put the cup away hastily, spilling hot coffee on her hand in the act. She withdrew her hand instinctively and then paused, thinking about what she had just done. The question now presented itself to her: could she do it?

A sharp knife that had been borrowed from the kitchen lay on the desk, beside the coffee. She held her hand over the cup of coffee. The steam dancing above it didn’t feel warm enough. She then placed her fingers on the smooth blade. It was cold. Very cold. A tear rolled down her cheek. She grasped her wrist and rubbed her thumb against her skin. The love for her own flesh weakened her resolve. She felt a pang of fear. She let go of her wrist and drank the remaining coffee.

She gently lifted the cold blade with both hands and placed it on her lap. Nothing happened. The world had already forgotten her. She desperately tried to think of something that would be worth living for; she looked back through the years to search for the ties that bind- there were none. Cold wind slapped her face. It reminded her of the awaiting task. She sat deep in thought, dissecting her fears. Then, she proceeded to understand clearly her intent. She made a decision, and waited in silence. She stood up. Her bare feet touched the pen that she had thrown away a few minutes ago. She took a deep breath, steadied herself, and slashed her wrist in a violent movement. The pain washed her grief away. She smiled for the last time as the dead life within her came gushing out.