BANG.
She gasped and inhaled the bitter air. She blinked her eyes open, although she didn't know why. It was just a natural reflex to open her eyes, yet she knew she would see nothing. She was alone. She choked on the atmosphere surrounding her as it stabbed her lungs. She wished that her body would grant her peace by resisting the indelible urge to breathe. But just as her eyes had opened, her lungs contracted. Her oh-so-human body was still fighting for life. If only it knew. But it did not know. Well, you try telling a heart not to beat. It will never listen. It can speak to you, with ever beat, every pulse. Touch your wrist. Touch your thumb. Touch your neck. It's speaking to you. It's commanding you: Live. Live. Live. Sometimes more fiercely than other times. Sometimes it's shouting. Racing. Demanding. Sometimes it's whispering. Soothing. Dancing. But either way, you have to listen. And it will never listen to you. When you're alone, you cannot stop your heart. Not with your bare hands. When you're cold and naked and shaking and alone, you cannot stop it. Not really stop it. Not completely stop it. But still, she was trying. It is stronger than your mind. Stronger than your senses. Stronger than the courage you muster; you coward. And they were laughing at her, and she could hear them as the reluctant symphony of her respiration droned on. The music score of her heart: the simple 4/4 signature, only one bar long. But she could see the end of the bar, and the end of the bar did not end as those two vertical lines were followed by two taunting dots. And the symmetrical reflection lay at the beginning of the bar, sandwiching the notes of her heart. Repeat. And so she lay there, numb. And the drums played on in her head. And she closed her eyes. And she clenched her fists. And she pierced her skin. But the beat played on. And she realised:
This is Love.
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