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
“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>