She dies too

i was having writer's block...went searching for some topics online...came across this: "Think of a situation in which a long-held fear or anxiety that you have comes true. Now, using the third-person mode of narration, write a scene – or a very short story – describing a fictional version of yourself dealing with the situation."

---i have a long running fear that i will walk into my house and my father will have killed himself. it's psychologically weird and disturbing, but it a fear of mine, so i wrote about it.--


She closes the door behind her, slides off her scarf, which wistfully makes her long, dirty-blonde hair static in the stark winter, as her lips gracefully paint her signature, yet simple, ‘Je suis arrivee’. She waits, but her words are untouched by everything but an empty silence transcending what she had hoped for. Her words should not have floated passed her lips without a reassuring response to fade away with.
Again, louder, ‘je suis arrivee’. But, again, the words fall in solitude and rebound deep in her chest. Her heart stops, she freezes, and panic washes over her like a heavy wave breaking upon an empty shore. She should not be alone. A quickened pulse and an anxious fluttering breath wistfully follow her like the sky of van Gogh’s Starry Night as she runs. Her necklaces jingle as she delicately searches for the familiar face that, in that moment, is her entire existence. The universe slowly encroaches upon her like a black tar breathing, rendering the rooms nonexistent and hopeless. She stops. She's searched almost everywhere; a lingering hope unstitches her insides. She doesn’t want to surrender to the panic that plagues her volatile death-soaked mind. Hopelessly and gracefully she brings her first two fingertips to her touch her lower lip as she inhales slowly, for she knows her next step elegantly holds the ability to simultaneously save and destroy her entire heart. Her glossy hand reaches for the knob of the last door.

and suddenly she is broken and forgets the world.

It was as if she had floated across the threshold into a deep unending blackness. Her breath breaks no silence. She feels a soundless but heavy implosion. Her beating breath demands all the space in the room, and it silently takes her. She starves her mind, head turned away, refusing to look but instead, relentlessly sensing the seemingly ubiquitous air; hoping to feel anything but alone. She wants to stop at the surface, leave the feeling on the cold bathroom floor, and walk away without surfacing reality. She childishly hopes it is nothing more than a death of her emotion, a death of perception’s cruel game, a death of anything else. A kind of pain etches itself upon two souls, each now seemingly dead to their own decree.
The world braced her that night; braced her for every breath she would take for the rest of her life. And she beautifully fell apart.