She can hear the sweet frangipanis serenading in her ear. She can taste the soft clouds, melting on the tip of her tongue. She can smell the lapping ocean tides; their scent evoking memories of summer, solidarity, and innocence.

She lies on her back in the centre of the room, relishing the cool concrete beneath her which has since become one of her many forms of solace. The moon’s glow pours through the open window behind her, and she stares up at the ceiling with wide eyes, watching the moths dance around with a grace of which she could never muster. A small fire burns inconspicuously on the opposite end of the room, the sound of its crackling flames coinciding with the beating of her heart. Silence is all she has ever known, and this situation is no different.

She stretches out for the glass bottle that is always found within an arms reach of her. Her fingers fumble around blindly for the bottle, but no bottle can be found. In a moment of panic, she abruptly sits up, and looks frantically around at the derelict room that surrounds her. As the blood rushes up to her head, the long and faded worthless blur of which her life has become, spins and spins, and stars flash before her clouded eyes.

She squeezes her eyes shut, wishing, not for the first time, that everything would just disappear. But when her eyes open once again, the glint of the sunlight hitting the glass bottle brings her back to the familiarity of her world. She crawls on blistered hands and scab-ridden knees across the dusty ground, never allowing, even for a second, for the bottle to stray out of her sight.

As her hands close tightly around the neck of the bottle, a sense of relief washes over her. She is back in her comfort zone, where safety and strength leave her at ease. Poison scorches through her veins and Death brushes against her shoulder. Yet, like every single other time, she dismisses it with a wave of her hand. Her head feels like it is levitating, and her mind drifts somewhere above her body. She imagines that it would be free. Although, something deep within her wonders whether being free would be such a good thing?

She heaves herself up onto her feet and stumbles over to the fire which is now roaring with her favourite kind of intensity. Her mouth gapes open, and the flames reflect deep within her eyes. She holds the bottle loosely in her hand, and rocks back and forth on the balls of her feet. Images of tropical beaches, soaring mountain tops, and New York nights blend together in her mind, exploding with colour and excitement like a complex concoction of symphonic chaos that only she can understand.

Holding her arms up above her head, she spins round and round, feeding off the energy that pulsates through her body. She can feel the universe challenging her to spin faster and faster and faster. And so she does. Her laughter echoes around the room, replicating that of a small child. Full of contrast, she is more alive and closer to death than ever imagined possible. Her laughter subsides, and she suddenly notices the bottle that she has been carrying this whole time. For a short moment, she has the urge to throw the bottle into the fire, and be gone with it all. But the temptation is just too much for her handle.

She drinks slowly, taking long and measured gulps of the very substance that threatens to kill her. With every swig, the bottle gets lighter and lighter, and before she knows it, there remains just one more drop. She pokes her finger into the bottle, hoping that in some way or another, she could magically fill it up to the brim again. Despite how ever many times she tries, the contents of the bottle stays the same, acting as a cruel reminder of how long she has been in this room. Tipping the bottle to her lips, she savours every last drop, reminding herself of the uncertainty of when she will drink like this once more.

She places the empty bottle down in front of her with the timed precision of a person who has experienced this many times before. Staring into space, she revels in the familiarity of the calming numbness that resonates both within and around her. She draws her knees up to her chin, and rests her exhausted head upon them. For the first time ever, she notices how empty and daunting this room is. A shiver runs down her spine, and she hugs her legs tightly with frail arms.

She misses the warmth of the kitchen where they all used to gather on the hottest of days and the coldest of nights. She misses the thick quilt that her grandmother had made her when she was born. She misses the steaming cups of exotic tea that they used to pour over every Sunday. She misses the carefree, exuberant girl that she once was. She sits in a slump, feeling sad, ashamed, and angry.

Without conscious thought, she stands up, and slowly walks over to the fire. She reaches into her pocket, and takes out a single rose. As she runs her finger down the stem, the thorns stab at her flesh, covering the entire rose with sticky sweet redness.

Then one by one, she pulls off the petals of the rose and throws them into the fire.
The first petal floats delicately down into the embers. This is for letting me believe that I didn’t need them.
The second petal seems to take forever, changing its course of direction multiple times, and nearly missing the flames. This is for allowing me to slip away.
The third petal rises up, up, up, above the palm of her hand, hovering in mid-air, frozen in time. Choking on her tears, she breathes in, a breath drenched in pain and bitterness, and blows on the petal. The petal falls into the flames. This is for remembering all that I once had.
She rips off the head of the rose, and with an exhausted grunt, hurls it into the flames. She feels empty. The stem of the rose still remains in her shaking hand.

She wraps her fingers around the stem so rigidly, that her knuckles become pale with exhaustion. A part of her doesn't want to do this. Something inside her says that she doesn't have to do this. But...it hurts. It hurts too much. And when she remembers the pain, she knows that she has no choice.

She begins to count down out loud, starting from ten. 10...9...8...Her voice resonates strong and loud...Perhaps a little too loud...5...4…3...2...1…

When the stem pierces through the skin over her heart, the silence of her stifled scream echoes and reverberates in the silence. For once, her world no longer spins. The stillness of the situation scares her.

She twists the stem further and further into her body, until she feels it hit her heart. With the weariness of a dieing soul, she gives the stem one more push. It surprises her how agonizing this is. She was so certain that she had become immune to pain. But this confirmed how wrong she was.

She wrenches her heart out, and throws it into the flames. The stem sticks out of the blaze, one last reminder of this cruel world she has come to know. She lies down on the cool concrete beneath her, and spreads her arms out like the wings of an angel. She feels a sense of peace with the world. She is...satisfied. She is satisfied because without her heart, she cannot love. And without this love, she cannot feel pain. And without this pain, the memories…are all gone.