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You had died.
You remember that much.
You do not remember your name, but a shape of your life has left an imprint on your mind: a sibling (you don’t remember their name), a mother (you don’t remember her name), and another mother (you don’t remember her name). You had loved them, you remembered. You didn’t hate them. Not even a little.
That was not enough.
You don’t remember what they looked like. The shape of them is unknown. Red, you have the impression of, for your mothers. Like fate, like blood, like hearts. A bleeding wound and auburn hair. You will never forgive them. Green, your mind supplies, for your sibling. They like red, too— but they were green, green, green. Broken crayons (you used to eat those), plush flower, plant leaves they grew, hair, moss, mossy, they were moss. A muppet person, a mushroom lover. You were scared of bugs, but they loved them. You hate me, they would tell you, like a fact. Joking tone. But not joking, you don’t think.
I don’t, and it wasn’t a lie, but they never believed you.
Why do they always hurt you? The thought floats to you, devoid of context or meaning. You are an expert in playing victim.
And maybe once you were, but you aren’t any longer.
You know that. You do not know a lot.
Just red. Just green. Just moss, and hair, and crayons, and bugs, and mushrooms, and leaves, and the way you slit your wrists, and died. Bleeding red.
You were scared, you remember. You were always scared to do that. You never sliced there, when you were young(er) and still took a razor to your flesh (pencil sharpeners). You never sliced there. Not until the end (end, end).
Why did you do that? You don’t remember. You don’t remember what kind of despair would lead you to tearing open your veins. Or perhaps you do, but don’t want to.
You are still scared, you think.
You have never stopped being scared for a moment of your fucking life.
Death is not so different, you suppose. It is dark here, and you are scared; not of the dark (the dark is safe just as much as fearful) but of the unknown.
Perhaps those are the same fear.
“HELLO.”
In the endless darkness, you hear a voice.
Relief and fear mix into one.
(Not a surprise. Like you said, you were always scared.)