"Ribbons of Lace" by Emily Grist

Pick up the pen. Write what is in your heart; your mind. Write what is real.

A chair in a blackened, an a-mirthful room. Sketches, words, phrases etched into the dulled wood. Claw marks on the floor, screams echoing from the walls of nothing...

It was a room that stretched forever. The beats of a war drum, the strings of a guitar gently making music together in the nothing. Gently... gently... not too loud or else everything will go wrong; everything will fall apart; they will die.

Where can I run to? Who do I turn to? Where can I hide?

Rocking back and forth in the nothingness, biting, producing blood, feeling the killing pain. Apathetic, so numb and yet so wild with rage and fear.

O how the Ribbons of Lace make her feel alone.

Licking her wounds help with the feeling. She stops feeling as she twitches, thinking no one is by her as she screams out, her thoughts cluttered and nothing coming out, she just wants to YELL AND FIGHT AND SCREAM AT THE MAN WHO SAID I LOVE YOU WITHOUT MEANING IT.

Where can I run to? Who do I turn to? Where can I hide?

The pen scratching in her ear while he writes the check, her happy, gleeful mood etching down as she wonders where he came from, so rich and powerful. Her head starts spinning and she feels about to go out of control. Her hands clamp over her ears so she can't hear the moans, her eyes closed so she can't see the wicked demons wreaking havoc, her voice bellowing at the top of her lungs to keep her from losing sanity; all this to keep it from leaving her, all this sacrifice and nothing worth it in the end.

They think she's bothered; they forget her within minutes. She walks up to strange men, thinking of the room, the chair, the phrases...

Do you think I care?

O how the Ribbons of Lace makes her unwanted.

Children laugh on the playground and she feels happy for a moment, even with the blood soaked on her hands, in her hair, on her clothes.

The chair in her head is spinning, the black room making her dizzy with confused thoughts.

Her body moves with the rain as it pours down, the children playing inside now, and the blood dripping off her.

She's satisfied with what happened. She's thinking of what's etched on the chair, in the room, all those phrases...

Did it feel good to be betrayed?

No response.

I didn't think it would.

O how the Ribbons of Lace make her contemplative.

Where can I run to? Who do I turn to? Where can I hide?

No one to turn to; they're all dead now. And it's all her fault.

There's no way out of this town. Not with the demons around: nowhere to run to.

She can still hide. She can hide in the playground, hoping the demons from her mind won't come for her.

It's all her fault. The Ribbons of Lace are the demons. But she can't say, because her mouth is now a lock. She created them; now they're real. They found the chair, the pen; the paper. They found the door, and so can she.

O how the Ribbons of Lace lock her up.