Can you keep a secret?
Can you keep it good?
To the grave?
Can you keep it if your life depends on it?
I've been keeping secrets; keeping them for years. They're etched in my bones and they run through my blood. Cut me open and I'd bleed the horrors of a life gone mad.
But I keep moving.
I hear screams in my head in silent rooms and crimson stains on cement walls flash behind closed eyes. Whispers and pleas and shouts and prayers and blood, so much blood. It was forever splattered across my decrepit body like a tattoo I could never be rid of.
The weight of the dead and the words unsaid, they rest unbearably heavy on my back; my own rotted cross to bear. The wood is peeling, black and splintered, piercing skin and flesh as if it were branding me as its own. It did own me. It always had.
But I keep moving.
Only when the night turns am I somewhat free. Even still, those dark red eyes are all I see.
I am tied to a leash that digs and scrapes at my neck and just when I think I can run, run, run, it's blackened fingers are gripping and pulling back until they're clawing at my arms and my chest once again. My echoing hole of a chest.
I could hear it laughing, low and manically. It took pleasure in my emptiness. My body was a hollowed cavern of suffocating darkness, the kind of darkness that only death can bring and once you've died you can never go back to the living. It only took one time for me to learn. It took a second time for me to see. It was all a game and I was the bloody pawn. There was nothing I could do but play along.
A new move is made few and far between and as I walk through thickened smoke and pitch black night, I wait. I wait for the next wild card to be dealt and pray that it might be more forgiving than the last. But what a silly thing for me to pray for when all along I should have been praying for that dark angel to take me for good.
Still, I wait. And I keep moving.
Because that's what he wants. I have no choice but to follow through, no questions asked. The rules were unspoken, yet they were simple and clear as if they had been written down on paper and nailed to my head. The blood that drips stings my eyes and scalds my cheeks. It's hot and acidic, bitter in my mouth. It's a permanent taste on my tongue that not even the burn of the strongest whiskey can eradicate.
I am a mangled mess of red wine blood and deteriorating flesh and dark secrets running deeper than the very core of this earth I trek on. What little hope I used to have has been chewed up and swallowed by razor sharp teeth with bits of skin and splinters of bone still clinging in between from previous victims of his merciless game.
My god I have no hope left.
How could I when everything surrounding me is up in flames? when everything that was once good is now marked by the devil? when the only source of solace I can receive is in those few moments of blissful release when that damned cross crushes my broken body once again?
I have no hope. I don't think I ever had it to begin with. That was made sure of. Hope is the first thing to go when you start the game.
My time to stop moving is rapidly approaching; I can feel it in my bones. The game can only last so long. Until then, I wait.
The next move is coming, another card to be dealt. Whether or not death is on the card remains to be seen. He takes his time when it comes to me.
And so I wait.
Want to know a secret?
I'm a dead woman walking.