arachnophobia

It starts something like this:

A cold weakening grasp and a faint final breath fanning over your knuckles as a corpse blossoms in your arms. The face that was once so familiar wears an expression so foreign it digs deep into your chest and buries a hole in your breast, embedding within you a pain so vibrant and grand you feel it crawling up your nerves and catching in your throat.

Your name doesn’t matter here; it never will. The event will play the same, over and over again, without a care for who you were, only for who you will be.

This is your fate.

The isolation that nips at your skin and embraces you when nothing else will.

This is your burden.

To lose and resurrect yourself from the shreds that destiny left behind, what a terribly resilient thing you are.

What we are.

It’s comforting to know that you are all the same. Woven together by the same tragedies and threads of fate, forever stuck in your cycle of corpses and isolation, the sun you so desperately protect shines from high above and out of reach. The same tragedies that plague you thread your lives together.

You are all the same.

Except him.

An anomaly, one audacious enough to think he has a say in the threads that bind you all.

Stop telling me how to live my life!

You have all long by now accepted the hollow ringing of fate. Those who didn’t—your palms burn at the memory of a vanishing corpse, nothing but air left for you to grasp—are quickly reminded of the way of the world.

Your world.

And yet, with the familiar resilience you all possess, he clings to the threads that dangle from the sun, climbing higher and higher, never thinking of the ones he leaves rotting behind.

(Your jaw locks. It wouldn’t have made a difference even if you had accepted his extended hand. You very well know what happens should you all try and change.)

The pain that connects you all, the tragedies that define the threads you’ll weave.

For him to reject the core of what you are is unforgivable.

Con el milagro de dios…

You won’t let him snap the connection.

Lo vas a madrear.

(You won’t let him destroy all that you know.)