I rest my head on the thinning sand pillow I made on the beach, wind flowing through my hair. God, I wish life was always like this: the serenity, the solitude. The airflow speeding up and taking me back to what I once was, where I once was; just a few yards away, huddled beneath the pier, crying. The salty tears eroding my face like the seawater crashing against the sharp rocks on the shore. Back then I just wanted a change of scenery, to be somewhere that wasn't home. Somewhere where my own identity wasn't interrupted by the buildings and barricades of life, blocking the wind from whistling in my ears its sweet sultry tune.

Now I miss you every winter, as I get cold and lonely on my shore, thinking I miss you — but it's only how I remember things. The sun shines upon my long hair as the wind flows in my dress. I'm free.
I start to crave new forms of catharsis as I'm able to burn all the clothes stained with the insults you threw at me, and cut my hair not because you say but because I wish, creating problems for myself and not out of depression.

I'd never dreamt my skin would feel this good to sit in as the wind wraps around me in embrace.

Soon my lungs will deteriorate, and my mind will be blown away.
As much as I forget, I remember, memories lay buried in the sand.

Eventually my time will come.

As I sacrifice my body to the wind, in wait of what the future may hold.

I oft find myself dreaming of places I'd most enjoy lingering in. The liminal, inconsequential places we mindlessly drift through day to day. Not necessarily hallways and stairwells — as enjoyable as those can be to inspect slightly longer than you should — no, my desires fall upon places society would loathe being for a longer time than necessary.

As a child I'd always stare out the car onto the highway during road trips. I'd perk up at every "nowheresville" town, and seeing the oh-so-distant shoreline vista I'd later spread my mother's ashes. However, what'd truly arrest my focus from all but my own breaths was the railings. Odd as it may be I was captivated by the gunmetal guard rails that lined every kind of roadway you can conjure up. Cars may stop there, but it's always 'cause of some kind of accident rather than by choice. A shame, I think, but I myself have fallen into such a pattern. Though sometimes as I drive aimlessly I see myself sitting there, a snapshot in time, lasting for less than a second in people's minds. A blurry face trying to decipher all the conversations in tinted windows it was never invited too.

But if invitation is needed, perhaps I should venture to the elevator. My dear old friend, the elevator. I see it tower me, welcoming me with open arms to partake in its monotonous service. Life is much like an elevator, we continue repeating ourselves until the day our cables snap, constantly dealing with people pushing our buttons. We still carry on, though. How could we not, people will always rely on someone who does things for them; not many folks take the stairs. There's a comradery present between me and the elevator. I hope it's taking me to the place I love most.

A blinding light permeates my eyelids before I have the chance to flicker them open from my rest. I choke on my spit as a heaving breath fills my body with the life I'd thought I lost. I can feel my matted hair poking at my forehead, and the tear-stained cheeks that haven't seen clean water for days. With more effort than should be necessary I recline my head onto the backrest of my armchair. My favorite, dingy armchair. Stains of various dubious sauces, remnants of cat scratches, and missing tufting all make it my own. I'm interwoven within, the stuffing of the cushions embroidered into my arms, while blood trickles down my torso from where the thread was stitched through my heart. I've not moved in days, I've not slept til just now. I've missed a week as it passed on slower than myself. But they all end up the same. The anxiety of what's to come replaced by apathy and television, the remote for which lay beneath my left hand for ease of use. The programs blend, or maybe I've lost their meaning. My new off-licensed prescription lay square on the light box. The tedium to get up and grab it has gotten hard to justify, but I know it'd make me feel something, anything.

But despite everything, I just know that I would like it.

“Are you ticklish?” Everest asked Skye with a mischievous grin growing along her snout.

“I don't think so,” Skye replied, coyly. “Whenever someone's tried it just feels like a bunch of bugs crawling on me, and I flinch away.” she chuckled.

Everest let out a little laugh as her hands crept in towards the cockapoo's sides, unleashing her attack.

Skye stifled her laughter, begging Everest to stop as both of their tails flailed about.

Skye thought about that moment with guilt. It was only a week ago that Everest and her were cuddling on the couch binging whatever bad DVDs they could find in her parent's attic, and now she's sitting alone on the edge of her bathtub, holding back tears that don't exist.

She wondered what Everest would think of her, what anyone would think. She questioned why she was in this position despite having good things in life. Sure, things weren't perfect, but they were better than before, right?

She hadn't even done it yet. She hadn't committed, it was all up in the air, mixed emotions mingling with actions not yet made. But she felt like she had to.

She traced the contour of her thigh with the sharpener blade, the cold metal giving her goosebumps. With a shaky hand, and an even shakier conscience, she swiped it across her skin.

A shaky smile began to form as she began making small marks with the blade. She haphazardly pushed it across her entire thigh. Skye had forgotten how invigorating it was. The delicate, almost playful balance of being sure she didn't cut too deep, while also going deep enough to draw blood. It tickled, and she began to beam from ear to ear, letting out a sigh and relaxing her hand.

She stared at the cat scratches on her thigh and felt pride, and then guilt. She wasn't supposed to be proud of them — nor of what she'd just done — but she couldn't help it. A euphoric feeling washed over her. She needed more. Her attention shifted to her stomach. Skye wasn't overweight. In fact she was perfectly average, but she still felt disgusted staring at her body. She held her breath, driving the sharpener blade into her gut, swiping large gashes across to no effect.

She exhaled heavily, and her tail lowered in defeat. Skye set the blade to the side and got into the shower. The hot water panged against her back and she sat down on the cold tub floor. She always felt lazy when she sat in the shower, but there were days where she couldn't muster the energy to properly wash her body.

Before she could feel sorry for herself — and guilty because of it — the blood began beading on her thigh in a satisfying pattern. She got to thinking about cutting elsewhere. The sensation of relapsing after so long left her satisfied — there was nothing like it. It offered a release from any negative emotions like no other. She turned her wrists to face her and stared at the vein, making a tight fist to accentuate it. Suddenly, Skye understood the appeal of cutting them open. She wanted to feel the blade send goosebumps down her arm, to cut herself open and watch her insides pool out. She wanted to feel the fear of having to hide the blood as it leaked out of her, or hide the scars while they healed. She lifted the other hand and ran her nail along the inside of her wrist. The tickling sensation leaving the cockapoo enticed.

Skye's eyes went wide, and she noticed her leg and stomach had turned a soft red. The blood was there — just under the skin — causing the areas she'd cut to appear tinted. It was only temporary, but it was a sign of her work. However, her smile disappeared when she noticed that her leg likely wasn't going to scar. It was always difficult for her to scar her thigh in comparison to her forearm, but at least she'd done it.

Then, as if guilt hadn't reared its head enough, the thought of telling someone bounced around Skye's brain. There were only two people she figured she could tell, Everest or Zuma. She couldn't put them through it though.

Zuma would be easiest to explain things to, and the more impartial of the two. He'd just make sure Skye's okay and then give a little encouragement for her not to do it again. Then there was Everest. Skye felt broken thinking about how she'd even bring things up to her. And she knew Everest would only dote on her and drill into her not to do it again, masking her pity for Skye, because the husky knew how much Skye hated pity.

The cockapoo shook her head as she stood up, turning off the water and beginning to dry her fur. She wouldn't tell either of them, she could keep this to herself. If she did, maybe the guilt would go away, and she could cut again tomorrow. The sensation hadn't yet escaped her, the tickling on her skin, the metal swiping away at her blood supply. She let out one last smile as she got her clothes, trying to feel good about herself.

When a tree falls in a forest, and nobody is around to hear it, does it even make a sound?

I’m sure people've asked this as long as there've been trees, maybe longer than there have been people. Perhaps the gods in their unknowing wisdom missed something here or there, thinking it was inconsequential when they finally decided to face what they'd had their back turned on for millennia.

Maybe they didn't pay attention.

Maybe they really just missed a spot.

Maybe they didn't care at all.

Maybe that spot is me.

“No, that's reductive.” She calls out incredulously. My guardian A.N.G.E.L., my savior, my personally assigned pest, “You're one of many that're likely ignored.”

“At least I don't need to vocalize for you to hear me,” I think with intention, “I lack the care to talk to people right now.”

“Curséd are those full in spirit,” she mocks, a singe of contempt tittering through the room.

Every word she says bounces off my tear-stained cheeks and buries its way into my matted hair. I've not moved in quite a while today, my bed feeling less like a home and more like a hospice. They say that man has the most indomitable spirit, however I think mine got tired of fighting my brain and decided to pursue better opportunities.

Catching myself on the cusp of dwelling, I peer up at the A.N.G.E.L. before me. A sly grin curves unnaturally onto her face and she tugs on both sides of her mouth and sticks her tongue out at me devilishly, heeding no mind to what I'd say.

“That's hypocritical!” She huffs, “You care about nothing, so why should I care about you!”

“Way to be terse.” I say, my first words of the day, causing the A.N.G.E.L.'s eyes to light up.

I remember my father used to say the first words you speak in a day determines what's to come soon after. I never believed it — at least I think so — but the things we're told as children tend to manifest themselves as superstition.

“God, sorry, you’re so boring.” She professes, dragging every word like a toddler.

“Why do you act like this?” I pry, my vow of silence seemingly having spent its course after it was broken.

“Every A.N.G.E.L. is programmed to reflect their user!” She replies in a practiced voice.

“Right…” I trail off, “But I'm not a toddler, and I certainly don't act like a child.” I say, holding onto at least a little bit of my pride.

“Your profile states you're conceited, depressing, and lost!”

Based on the glassy smile and focused eyes, I'm beginning to think her chipper tone in reciting her assumed traits of mine isn't programmed. I hear a giggle after coming to that conclusion in my head.

“And who's to say that?” I spark back.

“You yourself said you didn't care nor had time to talk to people, silly!” A symbol, much like a cat's face, if it were typed out, that is, appearing on her facial display.

“That in no way indicates I put any more attention upon myself in comparison though.” A small, dying part of me wants my reply to have weight behind it, to shut the stupid thing up, but it comes out half-hearted.

The A.N.G.E.L. tilts its head facetiously, and I loll back.

“How am I supposed to care for a world that doesn't exist?” I let out with a sigh. “This facsimile I’ve been trapped in — it's worth nothing. I have no interest in it or you and have thrown caution to the wind… there is nothing for me here.”

The A.N.G.E.L.'s display shifts to that of a doctor's face, “Might I suggest-”

But before it gets the chance to finish I rip the call button off its wire and through it at the android.

A burning sensation erupts beneath my face, as if I'm going to cry, but it dies down quickly. I’ve long since run out of tears. The clanging of the A.N.G.E.L's cold steel frame against the tile floors rings out into the hallway beyond my room. But I don't care about it, nor its makers, so did anyone really hear it?