The Helping Hands | Rebecca Mitchell (9)

I arrive into the world with a big, bright smile on my face.

The world is my oyster and I am the new, shiny pearl it produced.

As I explore my surroundings, I feel a warm presence holding my hand,

guiding me in the right direction.

One day, I started walking towards a new room. 

I haven't explored it yet and curiosity is eating me alive. 

What could it be?

The door was wide open, 

welcoming me.

It was shining, a bright beautiful light, I could almost touch.

One step,

one more step

Almost there-I’m yanked away.

A cold hand holding mine yanks me away.

I struggle against it but it doesnt let me go.

I’m not strong enough to push back.

A second hand joins the first until both are forcing, guiding me away, farther from that room.

I look back as I am led away.

The door is shut.

Now, there are too many hands on my skin.

All with their opinions and judgements, forcing me to go in their direction.

I have no choice but to hang limp like a ragdoll and follow.

My opinions are nothing other than a slight breeze that the hands wave away.

It’s all too much.

I can’t escape when they lead me to a new door.

A door that I won’t make it out of.

It’s on fire and I’m numb.

Their hands shove against my back, pushing me towards the orange, potent flames.

The heat so near it burns my pale, soft skin.

There’s no way out.

Maybe I wanted it to be that way.

But what if I wanted to wear a firefighters suit instead of gasoline?

What if I could just step onto the little pockets of air filled with hope and run away,

And away from the pain.

Then I’ll never have to feel it. Anything at all.

I’ll be blissfully ignorant, 

immune from anything and everything.

I would spend the rest of my time 

breathing, and crying, and drowning until I had wasted all nine lives.

And then, only then, would I come crawling back to the house full of embers and reclaim my old self.

All the joy, all the hope, burning to the touch.

I would reach out my translucent, dusty fingers 

and brush them against the bubbles of happiness. Taking it all back.

Then, I’ll cry, and cry. 

I’ll cry until I’m nothing but a ball of steam and I’ll finally evaporate until nothing is left of me.

The result of my burnout.