Clockwork
The drain pulls the shower water down, despite the protest of insistent hands. Knees give out, and she cups the water at the bottom of the tub, to keep it from slipping away like everything else she has known. Hot rain pours on her back and face, heavy and unrelenting. No matter how she tries, she cannot hold on to the people and things she loves. Even plugging the drain is only prolonging the inevitable, she thinks, and she finally lets her hands fall to her sides. She breaks down.
Even as the tears come, as clockwork as the sprinklers of an upper class home, they are devoid of emotion, and she knows it. No, she taught herself how not to feel a long time ago, and even now she is convinced that she has no home, no peace, no soul. She is so used to being empty, she feels full. She imagines this is how a dying person must feel. The entire world crashes around her, and nothing. When she is alone, she craves the company of just about anyone, but when they are finally by her side, holding her hand, there is an evergrowing perversion, unnatural, alien to all that she knows she is. It climbs deep within her, through every corner of her being, eating away her insides until all that is left is a shell, an empty body, resembling the girl no longer.
Even so, the darkness has not, and will not devour her completely. A shard of hope within her cries out desperately to be set free from this cat-and-mouse game. The soul is torn to the point of exhaustion until it finally gives up. The parasite, bored with the inactive host will poke the soul a few times, attempting to provoke some sort of reaction, some sort of fight. The invader needs the battle almost as much as it needs the girl herself, because without the battle, there can be no victory. Still, no movement comes, and the parasite curls into a comfortable ball in the soul’s mighty throne.
Hours, days, even weeks pass by, and the host has simply become numb from everything. So much has beaten her down, she is unsure of how to even stand up. The body goes into automatic transmission, relaying information in and out, functioning as normal. The mind and the heart still function work as organs, apart from the confrontation between the soul and the parasite, but they are still intrinsically linked to the soul. Three in one they are, like the holy trinity of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. However, without the soul, they can convey no depth.
While the parasite slumbers in its sacred place, the soul fortifies itself, encasing itself as well as the heart and original mind in a cocoon-like state for protection. While the parasite does little in the life of the little numb child we have come to know, it is always present–just there behind your conscience, between that dohickey and that thingamabob–feeding off every impure thought and action.
Every once in a blue moon, something will reach through the girl’s defenses. Through the fortifications and the walls, shattering everything she thought she knew, and grab ahold of that soft, sweet little heart. Then–right then!–at the parasite’s insistent protests, the most beautiful transformation will take place. The heart will race, the mind will soar, the soul will sing! Step by step, the layers of protection peel away, like an onion, until all that is left is light. The parasite will perish in the midst of such beauty of its own accord, unwilling to corrupt something so pure.
And thus, the soul is born anew.
It just takes some time, is all
