Wrists skyward she began to beg; "Please, Please God, I can't do this anymore. I don't want to be.. a prophet, or a messenger of peace and love or whatever it was that you sent her to me so that I would become. I don't.. I can't.." she broke off, broke down, and her mind crumbled around the excruciating wondering if she was experiencing a new type of crucifixion. If God existed, and if he was purposefully keeping her in pain for a bigger plan, and if, ultimately, she would ever know the luxury of a spinal cord snapping open and exposing the bare wires beneath.
She pressed her hand over her mouth to keep the words inside, and when the tears landed on her fingers and hung for extended moments before they fell, it looked like ivy creeping over the door of a great empty house. Her eyes so dark and lonely. The shaking shed the ivy leafs and when she spoke it was as if a random series of words had tumbled out from the hurricane inside, a cough, a wretch, a sentence; "I think I'm dying".