Red Cherry

I bite needlessly into the cherry in my hand. Needless in that it filled me not of substance, but grave disinterest. Grave in that I feel my body dying with each breath. Dying in that I was quickly losing resolve. Resolvie in that I was largely contemplating suicide. 

So I stared at the bowl before me, more its contents than its form, which was nothing to behold than a ceramic piece meant for meals. The bowl held, or housed, or contained, an array of cherries. Bright red cherries, notably large in size, those you’d place on cakes rather than eat needlessly. Though not only cakes but sundaes or perhaps brownies; but what matters most and what matters only is the redness of these cherries. They glowed, or shone, or illuminated under the candles burning, or dying, or steady flame. 

They stared and asked to be stared at, and filled my eyes and mouth with disgust. I held the piece of one cherry, a sacrifice or martyr, in my mouth and wished at once I’d throw it up. I imagined it; that horrid feeling of retching, and felt my throat burn and my jaw clench -- but my stomach did not churn. I quickly abandoned the idea and swallowed the cherry, leaving hate in its aftertaste. 

The candle burned brightly, the dark around me hardly frightened by it. I held the sound of silence, or nothing, or perhaps even the flame, in my head. I thought of it, the aching marks on my neck. I thought of them, the shallow paper cuts on my arms; though not done by paper, but instead a butcher's knife I found myself too frightened to use properly. Less frightened, and more bored. I am stuck in that boredom, the cherries and the candle all but aiding in this pathetic state of staleness. 

I am grateful for the silence, fearing the previous clamor of voices. One man once said people create hell, are hell, and to exist with them is continuous purgatory. Their voices kill me, fill me with a visceral sense of caution and edge me unto death. The memory alone tightens my chest and twists it sternly -- I miss my rest. To sleep is to die, to die is to dream. 

I miss my dreams, the deep black, the mellow images of fictitious reality. I think of this and ache; I wish to tip the candle and burn myself alive. I look at the cherries and wish to throw them aside, caste them to the ground; though I am sure the clatter of the bowl will frighten me. I am perpetually frightened, or consistently scared, or inevitably cowardly.

I think of the cheap rope fastened into a noose, sitting in the bedroom on a wooden stool. I eat a cherry, an ominously red, greatly superficial, cherry -- and contemplate suicide. 

I am, decidedly; far, far, too frightened.