The creases of her hands

STORY

Walking towards the collapsed constellations, she halted where silver dust motes shimmered, feline yet chaotic. The entire hallway, strewn with shattered pieces of mirror lay mercilessly for her to walk on.

Making her way towards one of the fragmented pieces, she placed the lower side of her hand at the edge to engrave its touch into her skin; it sunk deep into her hand as if it was mesmerizing. There, in its reflection, she saw stardust dancing in the cosmic fields of golden sunflowers, swaying with winds, healing to the tunes of sun kissed leaves. She let her fingers slide through the mirror, the creases of her hands taking in the aura but then the stardust turned into ashes, the previously harmless surface cut through the lower end of the hand and crimson dripped, drabbing the peace out of the rusty edges and replacing them with patched burning infernos. Heaped into swirls of ashes, the branches crept up and twined around the veins of her wrist, strangled the life out of it and left it discolored. Faded, she took a few steps back. Ashes, all she could remember was the amber ashes at the dusk, tangled in her thoughts.

Caught by another vulnerable glint, this wreckage of mirror reeked of serenity as she placed herself near it. Moonlit, dabbed in diamonds and twinkling with a hundred stars, it lulled the creases of her hands towards it and just at the moment she complied with the starry night, it crashed itself and vanished into a black hole, engulfed by a hundred galaxies, the thunders churning with the exit and lightening sniveling with what was left after the havoc. The entire surface was trembling fearlessly as it had scratched off some lines from her hands, where once ran Milky Way, now stood barren ruins. She clenched her fist slowly and placed it near to her heart, near to the relics. “Night!” It said as it gleamed down at the mauve sky - crumbling and settling itself in her eyes.

Scented with numerous flowerbeds, she chose to walk her hands among the one with scarlet roses. Soaked in melancholy, they resembled the creases of her hands. Her hands, now withered, devotedly, from left to right of the frame, lightly stroked the somber petals. Tinted by her touch, they looked up to her and there she was, sliding herself hallway through the thorns. Pricked by one of those, it quenched its thirst from the wine that trickled from the tip of her finger. Draped in cerise, she chose to escape with the fragrance of roses, her fingers tiringly seeking leave, her nails ticking off the restlessness that throbbed within the skin. Dripping out of the satin mahogany sky, she saw the clouds being sliced out of the pier glass.

She then dragged the creases on her hands to another fragmented crystal mirror, its sides, polished with metal. Stunning, it stood eluded from the skies and rested itself among the debris of miserable prison cells. Unlike many others, it clearly showed her reflection - just her. Not being able to see anything beyond her, she paused where she saw a colliding war among hues of grey, light green and hazelnut, all inside her eyes. Swirling, twirling and weaving - they danced off under the night sky. There was nothingness in her eyes for those who can’t see. She lifted her finger to be placed amongst the war and saw the stars rearranging themselves in the form of a rib cage, and from therein emerged a heart, with its beats fading into oblivion. She felt a sharp pain piercing into her ribs, sucking air out of her lungs, plunging the whispers out of her gut and tying knots in her throat. Fractured was the mirror and now her bones. The creases of her hands drowned into lost apartments of old graveyards.

Fuming with potions of frailty, this piece stroked long strands of her light chestnut hair. It enchanted itself and her onto a rooftop, subsiding into dark emerald skies. Sheer silence prevailed. Faraway, in a distant street someone burned and puffed the last of their cigarette, ripping it off the sight and brewing the last of its fireworks under the tattered sole of their shoe. But, even after long it was gone, the smoke hazed up in the sky, disappeared into thin air and soaked away the blurred tears into thick brick walls. Heaving under the weight of pungent cries that came from far, her hands climbed down to the windows which creaked to let in and out the wind. The cold breeze murmured a secret into the creases of her hands which now stood still even after the to and fro of all that was outside. Numbed by the secret, she was now held hostage by the crumbling dust that only resonated with rumors and which trailed off with maroon moonlight.

She moved onto another piece, it glistened with misery. She placed the very same delicate fingers on it. From therein, emerged piles of unkempt papers, scattered all over. Agonized by the familiarity, she sifted through them. Her hands trembling yet working through them. They were all the dead poetries she had written, the words whirled and suffocated her vision, some were burnt, some were cut off and some were there where she expected them to be- lingering in the deepest, grief stricken dungeons of her heart. Inscribed with sanctity, she felt sharp daggers being stabbed at the pale fingers as they slithered through those words. Paper cuts, numerous of them scraped off the little flesh that was left now. The creases of her hands inhaled the very essence of each word that the poetries hummed with. Drenched in revered fragrance of ache and drunk on drizzling cold rain it infused into her bones. Contrary to what should have been, she felt tranquility wrapping its warm wings around her, putting her to a sweet sleep. The very words, lost somewhere, written by her, soothed the creases on her hands.