The Dark

The sun had set, the stars peeking through gaps in the darkening clouds.

I wore my depression around me like a cloak. It was dark, comfortable, familiar. Like my clothes, my hair, and the cobbled street beneath my feet. It was quiet. The night was my friend, and I felt safe burying myself in it. He would never find me. I didn't want him to.

I saw how tomorrow would play out. He would wake up and realize I was gone. No note, none of my things remaining. He would feel sorry. He always did the morning after. But I wouldn't fall prey to his poetic words, his eloquent apologies. Never again. My face remembered more than words, more than kisses. My ribs remembered more than his gentle caress, my stomach more than his tongue gliding across it. For the longest time, I wore those moments like armour, protecting me from his attacks. But armour built with sand is nothing against the tsunami of ire.

He would search for me everywhere—every place we ever went. Every coffee shop, pub, shopping centre, restaurant, used book shop. But he would not find me. I took the last bus out of that god forsaken city and now stood beneath ancient buildings that soared like guards around me.

My armour slowly collapsed, leaving a trail of sand behind me, gathering in the spaces between cobblestones, my footsteps a steady war drum echoing through the streets.

My depression rippled around me like a cloak. It was dark, comfortable, familiar. Quiet. The night was my friend, and I felt safe burying myself in it.