The Words that Voice Salvation

She sits on the beanbag, age 14. Rounded spectacles perched delicately on the bridge of her nose, digging in so familiarly that the red indents just between her eyes have become one perfect imperfection. She’s hidden under a sweater, large and grey- it might as well be a dress, given how it just covers her knee caps. The window protects her from the outside world, rain drops like tears blurring the view with a steady continuous stream of water. The image is distorted. Everything is distorted. Everything but the soft leather in her hands, cushioning wax paper, yellowed with time and age. To others, the voices in her mind are crazy, just another indication that she has slowly started her descent into insanity. But she knows they're people. Characters that whisper out carefully through pages, characters that live in the walls of her little world.

She sits on the sidewalk, age 18. Rounded spectacles still cracked and broken from that time she leaned out of the window too far. She’s huddled up in the corner, a cassiterite vessel sat at the ends of her crossed knees. Her head buried between the binding of the book she may have knocked off of a library shelf. She’s absorbed, the only hope she has of escaping is the rattle of coins against the little tin can. The rattle of salvation, an answer to her plea.

She sits against the cold, bare, white wall, age 23. She’s abandoned the rounded spectacles, they don’t fit her face anymore. The cracks that meander their way through the plastered walls reflect the scars that trace her body. The room is bare, metal bed frame pushed up against the far wall, metal bars that protect her from the outside world. The rain no longer blurs are her view, her own tears cloud her vision now. An orange jumpsuit, too big for her small, frail figure.

But, despite where she sits, age 23. Age 24. Age 25. Even the chains tugging on her wrists fail to stop her from holding open the pages that keep her from her own, torturous reality.