《Feeling Cold》


 Prologue and Dedication

    Cold.


    Please, if you see me hug me sweetly. I do not care if it is romantic or platonic, hug with words of love and adoration as I melt in your embrace.


    I will always return it tenfold, but as of the moment, let me be selfish and ask for these things from you.


    A collection of important memories, my personal intimate ones, and the mundane little things,


    By, Eve


    Remember me in a sweet light. Please, I¡¯m practically begging, no matter what I do, please know I love you, and don¡¯t let me ruin our precious memories. Even as I spill myself onto these words, please know that I will forever love you, and hate myself till the end of time for never telling it enough.


    By, Ash


    Dedication:


    My love, my dreamer and drifter.


    You are my M, even though your name starts with an S. Do you remember? All those nights ago when you captured the memory of me with her, talking lovingly? I like to think you remember my name, I certainly haven¡¯t forgotten yours. It still clings, it aches and it urges me to go rabid and mad till I see you once more.Your voice is long forgotten, yet I think it sounds sweet and gruff. I can almost hear your words. Almost.


    Is this what love feels like? Can you be considered my first love? Or is this an obsession of mysterious admiration?


    Well, even if I go insane, I will trade my lungs and my heart to relive that memory of serenity over, and over till my bones are brittle and my cheeks wrinkly from joy. This memory is forever perfect and untainted without bitter biases and emotions.


    What is only left is attachments.


    Without you I would have not written this, you picture the stars and remember their beauty as you talk so fondly of them, but you are my star.


    Please find me if you read this, I am not sure of the name I have given but I remember yours.


    One day, let me ruin that precious memory and let go to make new ones. As always I am the poet, look for me, Sam.


    - Whatever name you remember, the black haired girl from the beach at 11pm on Tuesday.


    Prologue: The inspiration for Chaos


    Everything seems bleak.


    In this world in which I roam, I cannot even call the house I live in ¡®home¡¯. How long does it take for you to call a piece of property my humble abode? One year? 3 months? 2 decades? I¡¯ve never known.


    The only places my control seems to seep in is my bedroom and my own body. In the bathroom I am the water flowing down the drain, my tears mixing in with the shampoo on my hands.


    I cup my cheeks, fat with youth. Everything looks bleak, even the bright neon colors of the buildings below swirl and blend in with the night sky. Everything is bleak, till the wind kisses me sweetly and the stars dance around me.


    The harrowing, nightly howls and the wind meets the delusion of melody in my ears. I am happy, once again.


    A peak


    What is love? I like to think it is being able to look at the ceiling at night and not see or hear the agonizing screams of Guilt, only sweet solitary silence as you await the next day. My mind is always filled with short and sweet thoughts and agonizing questions that seem to plague me.


    Is it painful to live mundanely?


    Or is it better because you get to anticipate a few events, yet live a life content with what you have? Why couldn¡¯t I be mundane?


    Nonetheless, here I am. Standing under the overbearing sun, it¡¯s rays shining down on me as if it wants to beat me with a stick. My white polo sticks to my back and I can seem to feel every strand of hair in my scalp.


    ¡®I love living!¡¯


    Maybe if I repeat these words enough I might just believe myself.


    Stolen story; please report.


    The food I consume seems to numb the nerves in my tongue, it¡¯s burning the insides of my mouth and I can¡¯t seem to find the will in me to spit it out. This is why I savor the cold, forgotten food in the fridge.


    I like to think it''s like me.


    I wonder if it''s hard to love me, someone so brash and rude. Someone so self centered, someone who¡¯ll give everything she has, someone who¡¯ll paint herself in pitiful light just so you could just spare a secondary glance. Someone who complains even though she has all she needs.


    Sing, I remind myself.


    Is it bad to be selfish? Is there a certain degree of selfishness? An unspoken line which you cannot cross and will never be allowed to, unless wanting to suffer?


    I like to think selfishness is what makes us human.


    Deadlines, Friend groups, drama and the release of summer seem to weigh heavy on my mind.


    So this is the beauty of Youth. What joy, what stress, what true loneliness this is.


    I just need someone to listen, not even to care, I just need someone to be there and hover over me. Maybe I can seek comfort in the night, but I fear the loneliness it brings. I¡¯m so contradictory to my own thoughts. It''s hilarious till the point it''s painful.


    I¡¯m afraid of breaking, and feeling the pain, even though I''ve grown so comfortable in its subtle reminders of its warmth. It''s kind enough to hug me sweetly, to bring people to care for me. A conversation starter, a sad, twisted one, but an interesting one. Maybe I need the warmth and the comfort of pain, because of the way it brings people to care for me. Maybe I need it so I¡¯m reminded, so people are reminded that I¡¯m here, waiting for you.


    Or maybe it''s to remind myself that I have a body and that I¡¯m real.


    When I bleed, I¡¯m reminded that I''m something, that I¡¯m a person, a person who can feel and touch and is obligated to live and exist. I¡¯m so close to grabbing the knife, to make it slice my skin.


    I am so close to falling off the edge, to stick my hand in the boiling water, to feel the razor slit my skin and lick my blood.


    I¡¯ve tasted blood before, mine is a little sweet, yet the overarching metal flavor stays in my tongue.


    I want to bleed myself dry.


    This world has drained me of my color, only leaving a cocoon of a child.


    I need pain to ground me.


    If I don''t get hurt, I will forget. It''s a reminder that I¡¯m stuck here, till my warm, red blood goes stale.


    Sometimes, I¡¯m filled with if¡¯s and what¡¯s.


    Some days, I feel love, I feel loved, I feel like I want to give love, to take love. On those days, I forget the mourning. I forget to mourn. On those days I¡¯m simple minded, filled with childish thoughts, belly full with warm food shared with others.


    But, after those days, I remember to mourn, to sing the sweet names of the loves I could¡¯ve had. Singing the raspy melody of selfish greed.


    Singing, and singing, till my eyes are hollow and my throat bare and dry. Taking the air from the world and giving it my hideous, and ugly tune.


    Please remember the way I would laugh in your ears, hold your hands and kiss your tears. It¡¯s been so long since anyone has ever cried in my arms. I miss its warmth and ugliness, it''s disgusting feeling of the tears of someone else. To physically feel their emotion burst out on you like a thousand waning moons and the clouds heaviest rainfall.


    I miss the feeling of being needed.


    I want my voice to haunt your dreams. I want January 11th to be a somber day. I want that whenever you pass by a book you think maybe I would¡¯ve liked it. I want that whenever you eat red velvet cake you scrunch your face and hold back tears. I want to be so loved to the point that when I leave, everything associated with me is looked at with hatred. I wish you would know what I feel, so you can see how much I need these silly selfish things.


    I wish, I can only wish and want, so here I will beg. I beg to be loved.


    As I spiral into the rabbit hole that is my insanity, I wonder.


    ¡°Did my mother ever love me?¡±


    Or did she keep me because she wanted to create a woman who she could¡¯ve been?

 What couldve happened

    I think I want to kill myself.


    Or I¡¯d rather disappear.


    It calls to me like a siren song, the sweet words of death and its cold embrace. This yearning I feel that rumbles and prowls in the cage of my ribs follow the rhythm of the rising sun and the falling moon.


    Yet its sound is barely a thump, the weight of its voice barely audible in the cavern of my body.


    But its burden is heavy, and it seemingly pulls down the sharp bones into my stomach.


    This feeling drowns me in its hold, sinking me down into the waters filled with sorrow and biting crocodiles.


    In the murky water you can see a treasure chest. A treasure chest that brings me nothing but pain and paranoia. Yet I can''t help but polish its metal and kiss its lock for good luck.


    There''s no riches in this chest, no gold, no valuable manuscripts or anything special for that matter.


    No, what¡¯s inside is a cookie tin.


    A tin filled with unsent letters and ugly tears. This is where I keep all my ugly and misshapen things, my most shameful secret. It¡¯s been hidden away for so long that it dances to its own screeching music. The beat of its melody resembles the drumming of my heart.


    I¡¯ve birthed it out of my own lips and hands, I¡¯m covered in its blood and shedding its tears.


    ¡®It¡¯ I say, for it barely deserves a title of affection, and it would be an insult to all things living and breathing to refer to it as human. It is a beast of my own creation.


    ¡®It¡¯ is me.


    Which makes me question whether I even deserve to feel the warmth of the human title that is my name.


    I don¡¯t even qualify for its call. The sins in me are etched so deep into me, it shows itself as the scars on my body. My status casts me lower than the water fleas.


    And once again I drown in the river, where maybe I can deserve peace if I suffer more. Maybe, I can calmly rest my bones onto the mossy rocks, maybe I can finally feel at home.


    But it won¡¯t ever be enough will it? A being like me deserves less than what I have.


    How will I atone for my sins?


    I wonder how I¡¯ll do it?


    Do I take the knife, and slowly drink the blood from my veins?


    Do I hang myself from my windowsill under the moons gaze, to give her one last thrilling laugh before I end this terrible comedy?


    Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.Such kindness shouldn¡¯t be reserved for a being called me. If I were to die, I want to go out beautifully or at least in a way I can be remembered.


    I¡¯ll make my passing beautiful and bright, filled with colors and flashing lights. A carnival or a song, I just want to be remembered as I pass on.


    I am simply so afraid of being forgotten I¡¯d rather kill myself to carve a place in your memory, to dig a hole in your heart and rot there.


    I wish to be cruel sometimes, to make people feel hurt when I don¡¯t give them love, yet I can¡¯t bear to say no when they are in need or not at all.


    Maybe, if I give all my love, it would be one of the most beautiful ways to die. To die drained of care and kindness, only a husk and a halved soul left on the plate. Even the crumbs were given to the rats, for them to feed on the last bits of my own.


    I can¡¯t help but remember something. I would stare at the empty platter with a full set of cutlery, and I would laugh and can¡¯t help but think.


    I think as I sit on the dining table with a mother on my right and a stepfather to my left, and I look to the chandelier to only think;


    ¡®I¡¯ve had meals alone, and this feels more suffocating than the fluorescent lights of a restaurant. ¡¯


    The one thing I oh so fear, loneliness. Yet I often romanticize it when I¡¯m with the crowd.


    Aren¡¯t I such a hypocrite?


    I¡¯m very funny, I like to think. I¡¯m so laughable till the point of corruption and pain.


    That is why I need to be suffering in itself.


    I need to feel as much pain as I can when I die.


    To atone for my sins and such. I want to wring myself dry on the pavement, use my organs to feed the dogs and my skin as leather for your books.


    Use me in any way possible, so once again I feel as if I am loved.


    I want to be loved till the point of change. But I know for someone as wretched and terrible as me, I should not be given such love and kindness.


    I am a monster, a terrible person,


    Yet I am afraid to shoot myself in the head, and I cling to the idea of being loved and mourned at a funeral.


    How funny.


    How comedic.


    How hypocritical.


    So here, have the last of my blood and the last of my words.


    I will give you my final note.

 Memory 1, Dancing alone

    Memory 1, Dancing alone.


    It''s one of those nights again. Where the balcony seems to be such a close presence, where it''s almost yearning for me, yearning for me to come home.


    Some nights, I stand on its railing, judging how hurt I would be if I fall. Judging how long I get to fly. But for now, I stand.


    I stand on its stained tiles and I look at the moon. I fell in love with it, and it seems to love me too. Or maybe I¡¯m just convincing myself that there is someone for me to love.


    I¡¯m standing in my room alone, and¡­


    I¡¯m crying. It''s the sweet sort of cry, the cry of lacking something. It''s the one where it''s just tears at a time, you don¡¯t know the reason, but it feels good to cry.


    To touch the mirror and look at your bloodshot eyes, to have the want to punch and eat its shards distorting your view. In these intimate times, love for yourself, or self hatred, reign over you like a dictator to your emotions.


    But the one I feel is sort of in between.


    The feeling you¡¯ve done enough, you gave yourself an applaud, you¡¯re done for the day. But then you start to think about how little the ripple you¡¯ve caused, how pathetic your efforts have been. But maybe, in these bipolar swings of emotions, I¡¯ll allow myself the ability to voice out my worries to the empty walls in my room.


    To sing the songs I¡¯ve wanted to. To lie down as I cry into the pillow and feel my tears lick my tongue.


    Everything, and anything could¡¯ve been me in these times.


    In these times, I try to romanticize my suffering, maybe there''s an audience watching and hopefully at least they have something interesting to watch as I sob into my shirt, snot and tears mixing in. So, on one of these nights, I danced.


    Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.I sang along to the songs I''ve been playing over and over again, practically knowing the lyrics better than I¡¯ve ever known my own parents. I dance, my feet touching the cold floor. I dance, I laugh at my childishness, almost self aware that I look stupid, but I can¡¯t seem to bring myself to care.


    I dance, till the tears in my eyes become tears of joy, tears filled with laughter as I boast about my room.


    I dance, and I dance till practically my chest is heaving and my legs are shaky.


    The moon is eye-balling me, its beautiful crates create the illusion of sight. I hope, if there is a god up there, I pray that it will let me kiss the moon. To wipe the tears of the clouds away, to tuck the sun in for bed and dance with the stars.


    But the sins I carry are so deep, it''s almost etched into my soul.


    And I only pray to the God I was taught when I need something that is out of my control. Yet I ask for divine Mercy, I truly am a pitiful being.


    As the scissors on my table gleam brighter in the night, I dream of the stars kissing my intestines, the way my neck silently bleeds as I choke on my own lifeblood.


    Ah, I¡¯ve dreamed of this so many times. Please, someone, help me.


    Anyone, I¡¯m asking, let me be selfish when I need to be.


    I¡¯ve dreamed of my death so many days before, and the memory is reliving in my head once again.


    ¡±May the Lord help me when I reach the pearly gates of heaven, because I¡¯m so sure I will get cast out.¡±

 Memory 2, "I thought you were a good person"

    Memory 2, ¡°I thought you were a good person¡±


    These exact words make me go numb.


    It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts.


    It hurts like that sinking feeling you get when your parents scold you but you were in the right. It hurts like how a knife in your stomach would twist and knot it all up, tie it into a pretty bow. It hurts like when you curl up in your bed and you start feeling that sinking feeling of sudden guilt and regret.


    It hurts.


    It hurts like a bitchy dog in heat.


    The reason why it does is because I love these people till the point I understand, I try to piece the incomplete puzzle that I was given with only half the picture. I try to follow their humor, with their laughs and their sobs. I try so hard to understand.


    I am burdened with the fact they do not care as much as I do. I am the free songbird hunting for worms while they are the caged racing pigeons fed oats and nuts. They do not see me the way I see them, I look at them with love and longing.


    That¡¯s my tragedy.


    They do not care as deeply as I do. Their love for me does not run as deep as the cuts and valleys in the ocean or as deep as the scars on my body.


    It does not run deep enough for them to bleed red and blue, it doesn¡¯t at all.


    I am the one that cares too much. It¡¯s almost embarrassing.


    The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.


    ¡±I thought you were a good person¡±


    Shut up. Let the choirs sing from the angels above and I¡¯ll watch as hell below me rises from the pit and grabs my ankles and scratches at my scars.


    I can already feel the burn in me. The way that the hot flames would wipe my skin away. The way the fire would kiss my cheeks as the pain engulfs me, drowning me in its blue flames.


    ¡±I thought you were a good person, {...}¡±


    I shouldn¡¯t even be considered a person, my love. My vala, my mahal, my buwan.


    I am not even real. I¡¯m just a monster with a heart and a taste for dramatizing. I am not deserving of such a title, yet alone a name said with such love.


    ¡±I thought you were a good person, {...}. Aren¡¯t you ashamed of yourself?¡±


    I am ashamed. Please go quiet. I simply cannot understand or comprehend basic human etiquette, let alone understand it.


    I can¡¯t even begin to fathom its requirements. Your words pierce me like I was pushed in by the current on a rocky cave, my skin catching and destroying the rocks and the corals on the ocean floor. Is this how you tell me that you love me?


    Tell me how you care for me? I¡¯ll accept it with open arms.


    For I think love is born from pain, and to be loved is to be changed.


    To be hurt is to understand.

 Interlude, and Memory 3, Loving her in vain

    The Rabbit and the Wolf


    I love people like how the wolf loves the rabbit


    Look how fun and thrilling their game of tag is.


    Look how when the Wolf catches up to the Rabbit it shrieks in joy.


    Look how perfect the Wolf¡¯s lips fit so perfectly in the Rabbits neck.


    Look how the wonderful shade of red the Rabbit blushes when the Wolf kisses it.


    Look how the Rabbit nestles inside the Wolf¡¯s stomach, reaching for its warmth.


    Am I the Rabbit or the Wolf?


    Chasing after love or avoiding it in fear?


    Who am I to understand and admire their love?


    Maybe I¡¯m nothing but the snow or the grass being crunched underneath their paws


    nothing more than a sound that blends into the background.


    Interlude: Loving in pain


    Why do I give my love to those who pain me?


    I give my everything. I give you my all. I give and I give, and you take and you take. Whenever I¡¯m with you it feels as if I was the only one you give second priority to. I may be yours in whole, but are you ever mine?


    My head starts to spin whenever I think of you, and my heart feels bitter and the words weigh heavy on my tongue. My nose flares so slightly and my eyes start to tear.


    Whenever I see you, I always say hi first. It¡¯s never you. I¡¯m the one that¡¯s a forced presence in your life. You do not yearn for me the same way I pray for you.


    Are you the rabbit I chase in my dreams? Are you scared I¡¯ll hurt you? Look, look at my teeth. I¡¯ll bare them for you, and you can defang me all you want.


    Leave me only with the rotting and aching gums in my mouth. You always leave me defenseless.


    I¡¯ve never been in love with a silhouette, but the way you¡¯re not always here makes me love a version of you in my memories. In my head you were a sweet person, colliding your warmth in mine. Our arms become entangled in another as you I slept in your embrace.


    I felt so pretty.


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    But, those are memories. Love and pain has become the same word for me. It feels as if I¡¯m gripping flowers I¡¯ve received, and in my delusion I can¡¯t notice the thorns digging into my skin.


    You made me feel so pretty.


    But I¡¯m not pretty.


    Memory 3, Loving her in vain


    Why is it so hard to be in love?


    Why does she cast me in her side view, when she¡¯s all that I am? She lives inside my heart, her nails scratching at the walls of the emotion of love. She begs to be let out. But, I can¡¯t let her go yet. She is my everything.


    She¡¯s-


    She¡¯s not even mine. I¡¯m hers in whole, but will I ever have her full love? Will my love ever reach her?


    My heart loves her to the moon and back, but she¡¯s as unreachable as the sky. I can only feel her voice, I can¡¯t even hear it.


    She¡¯s beautiful.


    She reminds me of the clouds, the soft glow in the sun. She says she loves me, and I feel as if I won. But, she never tells me, you¡¯re beautiful. At this point in my life the four corners in my room know her name better than my own. I don¡¯t want her to be a phase in my life, I¡¯ve given my all to her.


    Everyday I hang on to the hope she¡¯ll all of a sudden talk about me the same way she talked about her past loves.


    Everyday I wish to become one of her fondest memories. But now, I just want her to remember me.


    My love for her isn''t sanctioned by the Lord above me. She knows that.


    Would she love me differently if I were a man?


    Does it matter if she and I bear the same body? Is it wrong for me to yearn for love that she declares isn¡¯t right?


    But she loves me, she says. But these words have been repeated so many times, it''s almost akin to the constant chatter in the street. When were the words I chased for 7 months become the ones I most loathed?


    I can¡¯t tell. I find myself waking up in bed, looking at the ceiling, wondering if this all would have been different if I didn¡¯t love her.


    Why did I have to be in the jaws of a beast whose bite felt so gentle?


    I love her with all my being, but I¡¯ve never felt pretty with her.