It’s cold today. My castle is drafty. It was built out of far-away bricks on a cliff of stone. I walk to the edge of my balcony everyday, called by some unknown force. Grabbing me. Pushing me. It wills me to stand as close as my feet allow. With stiff fingers, I grip the edge of the banister. The stone feels very rough as it crumbles in my hands. This castle was built to keep me safe, but it only made things worse. The icy gray walls make me feel hollow and cold. I’m always cold. I’ve always been cold, ever since I was a baby. My mother and father couldn’t hold me; they gave me burns and I gave them frostbite. Their gentle kisses just scalded my lips. I have only ever wanted to feel touched in the way others describe, to be hugged and caressed. Instead, all I am left with is scorched flesh. So my castle was built to keep me from incinerating.
That was long ago. No on has come. I have been alone since the beginning. I don’t even know my age and I haven’t a use for a name. It’s been so long that I’ve forgotten. The only time I ever get a glimpse of any life that could’ve been and of the love I couldn’t have is when I stand on the edge. Maybe I will find myself in the void.