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Isolation consumed Rika after the turn of events when she had finally saved Cheimi—this wasn’t how things were supposed to go. The presence of the little albino turtle lingered in the cruelest way as Rika found herself in a familiar situation.
“Mannen, Redi.” I muttered to the little turtle. He stared at me with curious eyes, refusing to return to his pendant. He nudged and tugged on my shirt from my lap, perhaps he understood what was happening.
“Please, Mannen. Redi.” I asked softly, finally putting it down. Mannen refused and kept calling me, bothering until I had finally returned to bed unharmed.
Despite how much I wanted to do it—I can’t help but be grateful for the little guy.
Rika sat in the same seat, glancing to the right and meeting her own gaze under the moonlight spilling through those dirty white curtains of the bedroom. The clock ticked and the longer it did, the more she felt like a bomb about to explode.
“Mannen.” She whispered—almost pleading for her companion to return. Tears welled up but never fell, no, she would never let that happen. Why would she even cry? Why would she care for the little creature she barely knew?
Rika reached for the familiar drawer that mocked her in her time of guilt, sadness, and depression—it stared as she opened and picked up that small ring box. She held it, looking at the cube wrapped in black faux leather, opening it to be met by red velvet with no ring in sight. Instead, there was a small cold piece of metal tucked away in the right side, its corner peeking out just enough for a small reflection under the dim light. She peeled the velvet back, taking out her only sanctuary left. It glimmered under the moonlight, it had remnants of dried ruby and had a faint smell of iron.
She stared and quietly cried to herself, wishing for someone, something, anything to stop her.
A moment of hushed sobs passed and nothing came, not a single chime in her phone nor a bird in the window.
She stared at her empty lap where Mannen once sat, his warmth replaced by a cold breeze. Tears fell, she was at her breaking point and no one can save her. She gripped the cold metal in her fist, cutting her palm with a stinging pain but no matter how hard she clenched her fist or how painful it gets—it doesn’t seem to relieve her. It doesn’t help and cover up the ache in her chest or the weight in her lungs. Sobs grow louder in the dead of night, her throat hiccupping and her stomach churning to the point where she had thrown up the emptiness in her stomach; she retched in pain as it burned like her insides were trying to come out, tearing her throat until she curled up, fallen on the cold floor of her room.
The overwhelming feeling of sadness soon came to an end as the feeling of rage replaced it. She slashed the floor, still trying so desperately not to harm herself but the inevitable came and unlike her previously careful sessions with this blade, it was angrier, more desperate for that overwhelming pain that will overcome the heavy feelings. She went on and on until blood pooled down her elbows to the flooring, seeping into the cracks of her house. She did not stop, even if she began to feel dizzy, even if she hiccupped and retched once more, even if she felt her own life slipping away.
She knew the pain would not go away, it never will, and that only seemed to fuel her desperation for escape even more,
She just wanted the life she deserved.
But did she even deserve to live?
That was the last thought in her head until the blood dripped no more.
Until she was no more.