MORS VINCIT OMNIA
Posted: 04 Jun 2016, 17:36
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If there ever was a word she’d never conjured upon looking at her reflection, it was ‘haggard’. Her hair, once lush and long, was now a dishevelled nest of unevenly chopped tressed that looked as lacklustre and frayed as she felt. The crown of untameable hair framed a face she recognised less with each passing month. Where there had once been handsome angles now were hallowed cheeks and sharpened edges that gave away her sickly disposition. Her skin was despairingly pale, the result of a long winter and an even longer treatment. When they’d revealed their favoured prognosis, they had been positive that her good health would carry her through the ruinous therapy. When Mackenzie looked at her reflection, she no longer saw the strength they’d spoken of. What she did see was enough to make her shy away from mirrors, the husk reflected back too discomforting a sight to behold.
To be surrounded by those who kept reminding her that she was alive (still, she’d add just to make them flinch) was as tiresome as being the battleground upon which disease and cure fought it out.
The constant reminder that she should feel grateful for her continued existence was exasperating, because being alive didn’t mean she was living. This truth—her truth—was not well received whenever she voiced it. Those around her mistook their presence at her side for shared experience; they encouraged her to see beyond her current circumstance as if they understood anything about it. Bristling at their unfaltering ignorance, Mackenzie only managed to fleetingly ruffle their feathers and still their wagging tongues. They’d momentarily accept her anger before trying to steer her away from it, too caught up in what their role should be than ask her what role she needed them to play.
Her sickness was all-encompassing, there was no steering her away from it. She couldn’t compartmentalise the weakness of her bones and the pain in her muscles. There were admittedly, however brief, moments between waves of nausea and knee-weakening tiredness that served as respite from her otherwise constant state of fatigue and frustration. It was in these moments that Mackenzie did her best thinking, clarity and determination partially restored. It was during a particularly tolerable afternoon that she came to the conclusion that it was time to leave behind the production that everyone had made of her tragedy.
To be surrounded by those who kept reminding her that she was alive (still, she’d add just to make them flinch) was as tiresome as being the battleground upon which disease and cure fought it out.
The constant reminder that she should feel grateful for her continued existence was exasperating, because being alive didn’t mean she was living. This truth—her truth—was not well received whenever she voiced it. Those around her mistook their presence at her side for shared experience; they encouraged her to see beyond her current circumstance as if they understood anything about it. Bristling at their unfaltering ignorance, Mackenzie only managed to fleetingly ruffle their feathers and still their wagging tongues. They’d momentarily accept her anger before trying to steer her away from it, too caught up in what their role should be than ask her what role she needed them to play.
Her sickness was all-encompassing, there was no steering her away from it. She couldn’t compartmentalise the weakness of her bones and the pain in her muscles. There were admittedly, however brief, moments between waves of nausea and knee-weakening tiredness that served as respite from her otherwise constant state of fatigue and frustration. It was in these moments that Mackenzie did her best thinking, clarity and determination partially restored. It was during a particularly tolerable afternoon that she came to the conclusion that it was time to leave behind the production that everyone had made of her tragedy.