《Looking in》 The visit Susan sat there, jittering, her arms tense, her hands sweaty. She looked out the window, she blinked, she looked ahead. She took a deep breath. She looked back. She sighed. A single long exhale. Emptying her lungs. She looked ahead. She closed her eyes. She breathed. In. out. In. out. She tilted her head back. She opened her eyes. She looked up. She clenched her fists. She looked down. Her nails dug into her palms. Grown, not long. Cut, not sharp. Nervous, not chewed. Never chewed. Shows you¡¯re nervous. She breathed. In. out. In. out. She looked ahead. She looked out the window. She got out the car. She stood. Shivering, tense, unmoving. Her body immobile, swaying, fragile. She stepped. One. Two. One. Two. She was off of the walkway now, on the path forwards. She paused. One second. Two. Three. She breathed. In. out. In. out. She stepped. One. Two. One. Two. She stood before the porch, three steps to go. Her eyes sweated. Rolled in her head. Her pupils dilated. She breathed. In. out. In. out. She stepped. One. Two. One. She stood before the door. Her rhythm was out. She looked down. She stamped her foot. Two. She looked up. She breathed. In. out. In. out. The door towered before her, white, grey in the fading light. So old, so familiar, so different. She reached out. She stopped. Her hand fell. She looked down. Her fists clenched. Tendons rose in her wrists. She looked up. She closed her eyes. She opened them. Her hand was at the door. She looked on. Her eyes widened. Her knuckle struck. Once. Twice. Once. Twice. Her hand fell. She stepped back. She stopped. She froze. She trembled. Her foot moved. She stood. Her hands clenched. Her back straightened. Her head rose. Her shoulders shifted. She blinked. She looked down at her hands. They were clenched far too tightly. She loosened her grip, and saw the pale red marks rise on her palm. Four crescent moons, shining like blood on a snowy field. She relaxed her arms, and let them fall to her side. She tucked her hands into her pockets. Jeans were a good idea after all. She looked up at the door, white plastic, hard, but not so much it hurt to knock. Not so much they couldn¡¯t hear, shouldn¡¯t hear. She refused to knock again. She blinked, her eyes catching light to the side, turned on from inside the house, pouring through the windows. Her eyes twitched, her body shivered, her foot shifted. She could hear footsteps now: light, soft, careful. Not the man then. She heard a key scrape the lock, a click as it released, a clunk as the handle was pulled down and a whisper as the door opened. She looked into a face she had scene countless times before, eyes that had watched her grow, hair she herself used to play with. With a voice as worn out as her body felt, as strained as the last few steps had her feeling, as cold as the emotions within, she spoke.This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. ¡°Hello mother.¡± Erosion Tom stood. Tom bought food. Tom didn¡¯t eat. Tom sat. Tom was Tom. Tom did as he was told. Because that¡¯s what good Toms did. What they were told. Tom stood. Tom bought food. Tom didn¡¯t eat. Tom gave money. Tom sat. Tom was a good boy. Wasn¡¯t he? Tom stood. Tom didn¡¯t buy food. Tom fell. Tom got hurt. Tom was bruised. Maybe not. But he would be. Tom stood. Tom bought food. Tom didn¡¯t eat. Tom gave money. Tom sat. Tom bruised. Tom hurt. Eventually. As everyone says though: you can¡¯t make omelettes without breaking a few eggs. Tom stood. Tom didn¡¯t buy food. Tom spoke. Tom was free. For a while. Eyes don¡¯t hurt. Tom stood. Tom hurt. Tom ached. Tom bruised. Tom lay down. Tom slept. Tom would learn. Tom stood. Tom winced. Tom flinched. Tom bought food. Tom didn¡¯t eat. Tom sat. Tom looked. Tom looked down. The floor looks interesting doesn¡¯t it Tom? Pity it can¡¯t speak.Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation. Tom stood. Tom bought food. Tom didn¡¯t eat. Tom sat. Tom flinched. Tom looked forwards. Tom dreamed. That¡¯s just escapism though isn¡¯t it? When will you learn Tom? Tom stood. Tom bought food. Tom didn¡¯t eat. Tom sat. Tom flinched. Tom looked forwards. Tom dreamed. The lemming follows off the cliff Tom. The lion leads the pride. The wolf hunts in packs. Tom didn¡¯t stand. Tom watched. David stood. David didn¡¯t buy food. David hurt his knuckles. Tom slept. Tom dreamed. Are your eyes sweating Tom? Or are you just too soft. Tom woke. Tom didn¡¯t move. Tom stayed in bed. Tom missed school. Tom got shouted at by his parents. Tom didn¡¯t know what to do. Now Tom, don¡¯t make a mistake here. This is what it all hinges on. Tom woke. Toms eyes opened. Tom looked at his alarm. Tom saw it was midnight. Tom got out of bed. Tom took his bag. Tom left. It may not be the right choice, but it may not be the wrong choice. You can only decide that when you know how it ends. Isn¡¯t that right Tom? Tom looked at the house. Tom looked at the school. Tom looked at the road. Tom sighed. Tom grabbed his bag. Tom left. He only looked back once. Boy in a bed Jonathan lay on the bed, eyes closed in the darkness. He could feel the heavy weight of the thin blanket atop him. The sharp spines in the springy mattress below. He felt his bones grinding smoothly across each other, his lungs barely gulping air. He opened his eyes and looked across at the clock on the bedside table. His head rolling to the side. Two o¡¯clock. In the morning. There¡¯d be no-one for hours yet. He closed his eyes and thought of sleep once more. His mind drifted, to the embarrassment he¡¯d made of himself in school, something so minor that likely no-one remembered, yet he had changed his whole personality to try avoid again. He thought of the missed opportunities, the failed chances, the passed risks, his mind forced him through every mistake he had ever made. He opened his eyes. Three o¡¯clock. In the morning. May as-well still be midnight. A painfully relieving sigh. He closed his eyes. He thought of everything he could have done, everything he could have changed, chosen, or done. Every life may have led, every step he could have taken. Every decision he could have made. He opened his eyes. Five o¡¯clock. In the morning. He closed his eyes. A long ways yet. He thought of everything he was. Everything he could have been. Everything he wanted to be. He thought of everything. He thought of nothing. He looked around at the darkness surrounding him. The world behind his eyelids. The world with no colour. No light. No movement. At his time of the morning, no sound. No little vibrations through the walls. The air tasted of nothing. The smells were absent. Missing in the void that is the mind. He seemed to float, to hover, to drift. Moving purposefully. Wandering aimlessly. Everything he ever was splayed before him. Not as sight, sound, touch, taste or smell. But memory. He could never tell what piece of his past he would relive, but he knew what it was every time he stepped up to it. He could never see, but he knew every time he drifted closer. He could never hear, but he knew every time he found himself there. He looked down at his hands. He looked down into the darkness. He shivered at the thought. Numbingly mindless. The darkness left. The light dimmed. The sound was banished. The noise grew. The touch faded. The contact emerged. The smells drifted. The scents wafted. The taste was lost. The feel returned. He opened his eyes. He closed his eyes. He opened his eyes. Eight o¡¯clock. He looked at the top of the digital clock. Saturday. He looked at the foot of the bed. The door to the side. A seat between the two. A person sitting. Their black hair a contrast to the white walls. Their black top a compliment to their pale skin. Their blue eyes sharp and calming. The vase of flowers behind the clock. Blue tulips like their eyes, green stalks that clashed. He looked up from bed into those deep blue eyes. At that pale skin loose skin, that pale black hair. Jonathan looked up from his hospital bed.Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon. ¡°Goodnight¡± He closed his eyes. Alone at night Peter stood, shielded by the rain. Exposed in the water. He thought of that evening, when he¡¯d had his latest row with his girlfriend. He thought of the day before, when his co-worker swore at him. He thought of two weeks ago, when he crashed his car. He remembered his girlfriend¡¯s words, his co-worker¡¯s tone, the grinding screech as the car was struck side on. He remembered the last time he spoke to his parents. The last time he hung out with friends, the last time he went to the movies. He remembered getting rejected by his high-school crush. He remembered getting dumped by his high-school girlfriend. He remembered never expressing his feelings towards that co-worker he thought of more than the others. Just before they changed jobs. He remembered that humiliating prank his classmate pulled on him in high-school, when boys don¡¯t know better. He remembered the few fights he¡¯d been in, over trivial things that seemed so important at the time. He remembered the rain as he walked in sorrow, the downpour as he wandered in misery. He remembered the ice on the road, that caught him unawares at last years Christmas, as he walked to the shops to get something to drown the loneliness. To smother the depression. To wash away the tears. He remembered the time he tripped in front of his colleagues, the way they stared into his back afterwards in derision. He remembered his friends spreading who he had a crush on when he told them in confidence. He remembered giving lifts to his classmates, then being left behind during school. He remembered his parents, dying. He remembered the ceremony, the funeral, the cremation. He remembered scattering the ashes to the winds, the way it fell, the wind dying, at his feet, the waves eventually claiming them. He remembered the walk he took, through the rain, the wind, the dark. He remembered all that went wrong. He¡¯d forgotten the last gift his girlfriend had bought him. He¡¯d forgotten the appreciation his co-worker expressed at his newest t-shirt. He¡¯d forgotten the anguish the other driver showed, his vow to pay the insurance, to fix his car. He¡¯d forgotten the picnics with his parents when he was young, the little inane greetings he and his friends shared, the games they¡¯d played, experiences they¡¯d shared. He¡¯d forgotten about that weird girl in class who kinda maybe hinted that she liked him. He¡¯d forgotten the secret make-out sessions with his neighbour when they were practically still kids. He¡¯d forgotten the girl that stood up for him during the mocking, until he¡¯d told her in no uncertain words not to, because it wasn¡¯t manly. He¡¯d forgotten the co-worker that gave him sly glances whenever she thought he wasn¡¯t looking. Just before she left. He¡¯d forgotten the ricks he¡¯d sometimes pull on his friends, that occasionally went to far. He¡¯d forgotten the kids, that he¡¯d helped sort out their problems when they argued on Halloween. He¡¯d forgotten the sunshine that dried him out in summer when he felt sleepy in the shade. The warm winds that would occasionally blow in through the window, warming him when the boss liked the thermostat too low in summer. He¡¯d forgotten helping his neighbour sweep her driveway during Christmas, the old lady could hardly do it herself, he¡¯d forgotten her son that had arrived to do it, helping with his own driveway. He¡¯d forgotten the hand that helped him up after falling awkwardly in front of associates. He¡¯d forgotten telling jokes that got out of hand with his school friends, talking about secrets a little too loud, joking about being found out. He¡¯d forgotten his childhood. Growing up with the parents he had, willing to help, to nurture, to teach, educate and train. He¡¯d forgotten the touch of their hands on his shoulder, encouraging him, the sound of their voice in his ear, cheering him on, the smell of their perfume and cologne, whenever he was drawn into an embrace. The sight of their waving arms as they encouraged him from the side-lines. He¡¯d forgotten the beggar he¡¯d passed on the way here. Just as wet as himself, just as alone in the dark streets. Covered only with thin clothes and a blanket, huddled into a recess just inside an alleyway. He¡¯d forgotten the way the water flowed at high tide.The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. He looked down into the pits of darkness, the depths of hell. He looked up at the sky. He jumped.