I love you so hard

The atmosphere here was cautious, tense, secluded and isolated, almost as though at any moment, everything would erupt into a wild frenzy of chaos and disaster. Not that it was uncommon in theses times; danger lurked in every corner of the world now a days, hiding beneath the fragile surface of uneasy and unbalanced peace, only to break free in a moment of weakness, lunging and tearing at anything and everything in reach. But for some reason, this small abandoned corner of the world stood hauntingly alone, behind imaginary prison bars that separated it from the rest of the universe. As though because of a crime it had no intention of committing, it was being punished. The place was cold, dark, and empty. …It almost held a sense of familiarity to her. She stood on the porch, leaning against a support beam; her knuckles were bleached white with a resigned bitterness. This place, with its dead trees and ice cold water, reminded her too much of the emptiness in her heart. The emptiness that hid beneath an imaginary porcelain mask; one that covered her face, her soul, her mind. It hid everything she had ever thought, ever felt, ever dreamed about, covering over it like a canopy, protecting everything inside from those on the outside. It was her sword, her shield, her clothing; without it, she felt vulnerable and open, easy to be overtaken. She looked around the yard, gazing over the dead grass, the brown leaves, the clumps of dirt, and the pebbles. She hated it here. She hated the fact that everything in her view stood for everything that was bottled up inside her, festering slowly like a wound unwashed. The tangling bushes, the struggling plants, the strangling thorns; everything seemed to be fighting each other, fighting itself, for dominance, for reign, for survival. It fought battles that reminded her of the wars she fought with herself, and she hated it. Because she was so much alike to the loneliness and the…insanity that permeated the very air that she breathed. It was dark, miasmic, foggy. It carried a heaviness that enveloped her, suffocated her, dragged her down. It taunted her. She truly hated it here. But…where else was there to go? She stared at the ground quietly, knowing that with only one more step, she would be in this the yard. Not shadowing its edge with a forlorn restlessness, circling the area like a whimpering dog unable to reach its prey. She would be in the yard and over towards the side walk. Where as she crawled slowly into the cold, numbing air when she peeled off her jacket to run, the only kind of air to wash away both the physical and mental dirt that soiled her freshly opened wounds, she would, if only for a moment, feel clean and empty of emotions and pain. The thought excited her; she had been going on for so long with pain burning at her insides, that the chance to pretend it wasn't there was a blissful ecstasy that she would indulge in to the fullest. Even if it was selfish and shameful, she couldn't help it. She wanted that freedom. But…it was still that first, one footstep… She hesitated, her form wavering. She felt like she was standing on the edge of a cliff; one misplaced move could shatter the foundation beneath her feet, leaving her nothing to grip and no one to catch her. It was a… frightening thought. 'I'm being illogical.' she reasoned with herself. Fear was not about to control her. 'Nothing is going to go anywhere, and neither am I.' But she still felt the small trembling quake that skimmed from the tip of her toes to the thin of her spine, dancing under her skin and rattling the top of her skull. As much as she denied the emotion, she was not stupid to her own plight. She knew what she was feeling. Hate. Emptiness. She felt alone in the darkness. Well, in a truer, more meaningful way at least. All her life she had been alone; alone hunting, alone fighting, alone as a girlfriend, and now… alone as a wife. But what she was feeling at the moment was far from the feeling of being physically alone. This was the kind of isolation that one succumbed to by themselves out in the wild streets and dangerous lands of America; the kind that swept through you in one mustering blast and left you without sanity. The kind that sunk to the very pit of your stomach, and ever so slowly crawled like the plague into every pore, every vein, every breath, until there was nothing left of you but flesh and blood. Where your mind disappeared and you were no better then an instinctual animal, a killing machine, a beast. It was not something that she was used to. It scared her more then she would admit. Desurhay closed her eyes. Suddenly, a long thin crack blossomed across her imaginary porcelain mask and something bright flashed beneath her eyelids. A wave of voices descended upon her head; voices of once happy times whispering softly, voices of dreams speaking in a strange tongue, voices she heard only in her nightmares screaming above all the rest in a mind shattering snarl. Weakling. Stupid woman. Worthless. She fought to control the tide of words that erupted in her head, searching for that strand of control that dangled hauntingly before her. A part of her had died the second she had seen the blank, vacant expression painted over his delicate face. (his? No. His with a capital ‘h’. Kensor Leon Hackett, the night when she had walked into the bedroom and rolled they boy over, to find the boy half alive) Because it was the expression she glimpsed at in her reflection every night. Did that make her really, truly dead too? The voices grew louder. She gripped her control. They vanished. Her riddled mask enveloped around her seamlessly once again. Desurhay opened her eyes. For a moment, she wished she could find some freedom from the overpowering stench of self-loathing that tasted in the air and burned her lungs. It reeked of misery and disgust, of weakness and of shame. One breath and it sucked her deeper into her body, so deep that she didn't have the strength to crawl back out again. She wished with all her heart, in just one moment, that she could let death grasp her in its clutches, and rock her to sleep in a blissful numb indifference. The second it surfaced in her mind, she squished it down. Suicidal thoughts meant death. Death meant cowardice. She was no coward. And she wasn't about to become one. Using an expertise she had long since mastered, she sliced down on those doubts, casting the weaknesses from her mind with a flick of mental concentration. It was done with practiced ease; she could feel the sensation of ice sheathing over her, leaving only frozen remains of the voices, the pain, and the poison that trickled into her mind. It was…surprisingly…wonderful. She welcomed it with open arms. But even then, she couldn't stop the last drop of venom from seeping into her next thought, a thought that threatened to crack the ice that incased her once again and leave her lying in its shattered remains. 'Death would be so much more easier to handle then living.' It was almost funny how large a dent that left in the solitude safe house she had been sweating to build around her. It hurt. Instantly, the animosity was gone, leaving not a trail to mark its passing. But Desurhay was neither deaf nor blind to the working of her senses; the taste of hatred on her tongue was just as repugnant as the memory of its burden. It was one of the many times in her life she hated being weak, hated succumbing to her emotions and whims, hated being like every other vulnerable woman in her time. Hated the sweetness of kind actions, hated the delicacy of sugarcoated words. Hated herself. She was a woman. It was when her pain became unbearable, that her mask cracked and her fears came to life. It was only strange coincident when the only man who could understand her weakness, was there to see it all happen.