Anjali sethi is dead

Anjali Sethi Is Dead 

The rusty anchor that was tied to her brain pulled her back to reality as the currents tugged her forward. For the longest time, the anchor was far stronger than what tugged her, for she had seen the same waves time and time again. The waves were wild horses, rearing up before they crashed down, pounding her with their white hooves. But as she decided to row into the great darkness that had been enticing her, she noticed that the anchor had been untied. 

She had seen darkness before, and darkness had seen her; the kind that made the streets appear as if they were an old fashioned photograph, everything a shade of gray. But this was not the same. This was the darkness that robbed her of her best sense and replaced it with a paralysing fear. In this darkness she stayed, muscles cramped and unable to move. She knew her eyes were still there solely because she could feel herself blink. By her genes she was a predator, with front facing eyes and an intellect to hunt, but she felt like prey in the utter black. After the long days of being so alone, the pain ebbed. She thought she would feel the knives in her back forever, the long blades slicing into sensitive flesh. 

Happiness was a strange illusion she had always wanted to be a part of. She held all of the broken pieces in her hand, wanting to be whole again. Her skin screamed on the inside, but was quiet on the outside. “Are you always happy?,”  they asked. But was she ever happy at all? She wandered with a face that wasn’t hers, painting on what she needed to. She danced when the stars aligned, sipping from an empty glass. She watched as the leaves of memories turned brown, falling slowly and painfully, and as the twigs of emotions snapped and broke too easily. How did her greatest fear become her own mind? Too many thoughts raced around her, like a crowd of people running frantically through a burning building. If only she had put her full effort into dousing the fire. 

She drowned as the constant waves pulled her deeper and deeper in. She struggled to keep herself above the water, but she just wanted to let go. Anjali Sethi is dead, because with every hit, every cut, and every scar, she ripped her own flimsy paper heart apart.