sweet sorrow of a day

A beautiful bouquet of wildflowers was displayed inside an expensive glass vase, and elegant white laced doily underneath. The small circular cherry wood table had only recently been purchased and showcased in her living room. The bright beams of sunlight had awaked her, earlier than she would have liked, but she had big plans for her morning. Her wide baby blue eyes sparkled, her hair glistened and mind raced through her upcoming movements. At her window, she revealed an inviting calling from the outside world, full of pure emotion and candid whispers. Surely the brown satin curtains were feeling the wrath of the glowing sensations prancing and skipping along the happy haze floating through the air. Once she pulled back the curtains, the room itself seemed to sing of unlocked doors, and broken shackles. She didn’t stay in the room long enough to hear their sweet nothings dowsed in mellow voices. She had other things to attend to in her bedroom.
She had fallen asleep on the couch, and remained there the entire evening. She had awoken in the middle of the night, but felt uninspired to glide onto her cold but comfortable sheets on the bed. It would have been too depressing for her to feel that cool warmth on her tired body at that point of the evening. She had stayed awake for only a matter of minutes, just enough to blow out her lavender and waterfall scented candles, and say a prayer. She quickly fell back into a complex driven slumber. The blackness and unsettling quietness of the room was fitting as she closed her eyes for the evening.
The bedroom was just as she had remembered it. It was beautiful and enchanting. The air smelt of stale incense and dried up rose petals. As she scanned the room one last time before exiting, she swore she saw angelic figures floating, waving to her amongst a layer of mild, dimming clouds. It was both awe inspiring and brutal to her senses.
She grabbed a thick, deep purple, soothing blanket from her hallway closet, directly outside of her bedroom, and nestled the folded up fabric softness against her side, under her arm for protection. She was feeling quite vulnerable. She set up a string of small black candles on a large antique wooden chest she had displayed in her living room and carefully lit each one, saying a prayer after each illumination. She closed her eyes, making certain her eyelids drew pain from the tension she created within herself. She turned on her stereo and landed on a calming station of sounds of French horns, harps, love, and misting rain; sounds of pure bliss and unforgettable memories. She waited for the perfect song, the perfect sound to land an unforgiving morning. As she found that perfect song, she cranked up the volume to avoid listening to her pitiful cries of anguish and guilty growls within her twisted up stomach.
She was too ashamed to leave a note, any reason for her actions. She hoped that those closest to her would understand, and respect her decision. But, somehow, she knew deep down that they wouldn’t. They would be appalled and saddened beyond comprehension. The pile of pills she had collected for the morning looked dull and disturbing. The last solid thought she had within herself was an apology called out to dumb founded ears. Blackness filled the room as the candles burned and dripped onto the quiet cold chest. The light of day had lost its luster.