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This diary entry is written by Maria_Maelstrom. ( View all entries )
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{Intro} You Couldn't Live Without Me, I Couldn't Die Without You.Category: New Story.
Tuesday, 14 July 2009
02:40:41 PM (GMT)
[SO. I started a new story. It's up on quizilla. o_o But, I think I'll put it up
here, too :D I'll leave the colors and divisions for later, I guess.]
[[And if it's just not a story you'd be interested in reading... Don't read it.
You have my permission to stop at any time. o_o ]]

You Couldn't Live Without Me, I Couldn't Die Without You. Let me be blunt. There’s something a little off, when it comes to my life. I mean, in addition to the mother that left when I was a child, and the father that doesn’t do anything but yell, or assume I’m some sort of promiscuous girl when I stay out at the neighborhood café past nine. And maybe it’s just my mind, looking for some sort of encouragement from someone other than friends I’d just met a year ago. There’s someone around. I don’t know his name, or if he can actually be called a ‘ghost’, either. Maybe it’s psychosis. But I don’t think I care. He doesn’t distract me from anything important. I still get chores and schoolwork done. I still have a ‘normal’ life, hang out with friends, and anything else. This figment of my imagination is nice to have around. Like a guardian angel. I’ll remember that my keys are in my room, turn to get them, and find them on the end table in the foyer instead, meaning I wouldn’t have to head upstairs and find them. Or, there’ll be a Post-It note, with neat handwriting that I know couldn’t belong to my father, reminding me of something important that I’ve been putting off. If it’s a figment of my imagination, then I guess I’ve got a really harmless version of a multiple personality disorder. If it’s a stalker, then I guess I’ll just be glad that he seems nice enough. A person that cares, in a house where no one does. “Thanks again.” I murmured before falling asleep, turning onto my side under the covers. I always hear a small “You’re welcome” that seems to come from both nowhere and everywhere in the room. Disembodied. It’s a shame I can never quite tell if it’s real, or something my sleep-clouded mind created. The voice has personality to it, though. If it’s been a stressful day at school, and I’m at my wit’s end, the voice has a chuckle to it, as if my frustrations were childish. If I’ve been crying—as was often the case, when my father’s around, it’s got a twinge of pain to it, as if it felt how I did. I don’t know how to explain it, but I’m glad it’s there. My own living (maybe), breathing (maybe), helping diary.</font></font>

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Next entry: {And Another Day.} You Couldn't Live Without Me, I Couldn't Die
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