In contradiction

The tiles were abnormally cold for such a hot day. She felt the smoothness against her back as she lay, staring up at the ceiling. She wondered at the inclination of humans to look up. When fascinated, when lost, when tired, when dreaming. Always looking up. She wondered what was up there that everyone was looking for. Maybe they had already found it, and were just checking that it was still there. Is that how people find Jesus, she wondered. No, she concluded. It’s probably how they lost him. She always thought of Jesus as elusive, an enigmatic shadow hovering over the future, concerned mostly with her death and what good and bad things she was doing. 

The white-walled studio and the hard knotted wooden floors on which she lay held her whole life. Her art, her battered guitar, her soul in the walls, in the floor. The suitcase full of hardcover books splattered with paint. Odd socks, a family portrait of happier times, her toothbrush. As she lay there, aching on the inside, she wondered if this studio was more alive then she. But I can speak, if the walls could speak... she thought. If the walls could speak, they'd set fire to a forest with all they've seen. 

She winced and licked her lips and began to speak, first tentatively, as if expecting reprimand from the walls, then continuing on stronger, "I guess I like pain because I like the relief you get when it goes away. It reminds you that you’re alive, that you’re still breathing, living. And when it gets too much, when the fire feels like it’s going to consume you, it stops, and it’s the most wonderful feeling you could ever imagine. Like jumping into the water on a blistering hot day. Two extremes. And somehow, you find yourself again, in the middle of the two."
Her lungs contracted, eyes scanned the ceiling, watching for a reply. Nothing. Breathed a sigh of relief. At least she was still ... sane. The very word sent chills up her spine, and her insides squirmed uncomfortably. If you were actually sane, would you be lying here, talking to yourself? She questioned, and found no answer.

It was only a fortnight ago that she had been released from the hospital. Two weeks and she was already trying to justify what reasoning and logic never could. Two weeks of being alone every second moment. Visiting the doctors on Tuesdays and Fridays, yes I'm fine now, it was just an accident. No, the pain isn't too bad. It's not comfortable, but it's bearable. Yes, I should be able to remove the bandages within the month. Bathing herself with these false assurances, she felt each lie as a blow to the wall she saw built up around life. To keep her out, to keep everyone else safe. The wall was there for a reason, but she still wanted to destroy as much of it as possible. For fun. For relief.

...

"I just couldn't handle her at the moment. I had to get out." He sighed, running one hand wearily through his dark hair. "After seeing her like that, having to wait until she was unconscious so I could call the ambulance. It's just too much."
"She is too much. She's always been that way." The other said. "Think of the most intense person you know, okay? You’ve got it? Yep, now multiply that by one hundred. It’s like, everything that you could ever possibly feel, everything you could possibly think, all at once. I think she feels things more than others, she sees colours that we don’t. And sometimes, it gets too much. You know that, you’ve been there, picking her up off the floor, holding her as she slips between reality and whatever world her mind has taken her captive with. And the thing is, you never really know what’s going on up there. Whether she’s lonely, or tired, or desperate for attention, or if that’s just the way she is." 

The two men sat in rickety chairs, facing the street, smoking cigarette after cigarette. She was the only reason they were there. One, an old war veteran in the life of her, the other, her newest victim.

"I don’t know how to tell you about her. I wouldn’t even know where to start. She’s like ice on a cold day. Coffee in the middle of summer. Like silent pauses, expectant. Unmerciful. Awkward."
A silent pause proceeded, as if to emphasize his point. You could see the pain built up in his light eyes. The weight sitting on his shoulders, as if the memory of her hadn't entirely left yet.
The darker man broke the silence, "She never leaves. She's there, waking me up in the middle of the night, gasping for air, thinking that I've heard her scream out." His dark hair only emphasized his tiredness. You could see the dark circles under his eyes. Hear the tired slur of his words. 

"She doesn't scream out." The lighter man stated, matter-of-factly. "Not once will she ask for help. I thought you'd have realised that by now." 

"I know. But I still think that she might."
He shook his sandy-coloured head, slowly as he sighed.