everdeen13

I am not praying. Perhaps I should be; it is a funeral, after all.  Isn't one supposed to be with God here? Ah, well.  I have spent the better part of the last twenty years not praying and to start now would be useless. I am not crying. I know I should feel something.  I know I should realize how beautiful the service is and I know I should realize that the world has not ended.  But that is utter bullshit, because the world has ended.  All I feel is emptiness.  A dull gap in my mind where emotion is supposed to be. I watch as they take her out of the church.  I do not follow.  I cannot follow.  I cannot do anything but stand here and sta

“Have you slept?” “Want an honest answer?” “Yeah.” “No.” “Me neither. A long pause. “Baby?” “Yeah?” “Are you okay?” “About as okay as you are.” Another pause, with only the sounds of slow, tired breathing. “Baby?” “What now?” “I love you.” “…yeah.  I love you too.  Good night.” “Sleep well.”

Can't sleep.  Won't sleep.  Can't sleep. Again, and again, and again, and again... Will this ever be over?  Over is such a finite word.  Finite is not at all possible tonight. Over. Finite. Tonight. Words that make sense, when viewed with a logical brain. I've lost all sense.  Sense is a foreign word; it means about as much to me as something uttered in an alien language.  Words are impossible in this condition.  Much of anything is impossible in this condition. I cannot move; I cannot think.  I can only breathe.  The cool air coming from the vent in the corner is wonderful. The binds cut into my wrists and arms and legs and middle.

Discovered in the wreckage of an unnamed house (written on letter stationary): To: Journal From: Elissa I write this entry in the attic.  You must forgive my handwriting, I am wearing the blue rings given to me by my father, and they are quite loose.  I've been told not to come up here, and I've no idea why I'm not doing what these kind people tell me to do, foolish girl that I am.  I plan on writing everything that happens here, and my thoughts, if only to remember later.  I tensen as I think I hear a noise.  No, it is only the house settling.  I look around the room.  Oh, Lord, can I be found here?  Perhaps... A box catches my eye.  It

It isn't time, not now.  It isn't time for me to see you.  This is too early, too early... not time, not time, not time.  These are my only thoughts as you enter, your eyes full of emotions, mixed up and confused.  All I want is to love you, yet you allude me so!  There's no words for this, no words for how I feel about you, my love.  Now, though, now you must leave.  Now I must sit here, in the darkness of my prison of time, but still you come to me.  You smile at me, and my heart soars.  Still, I try to push you away, for it is too early, too early, not time, not time...   You come closer. "No!" I shout, forgetting myself.   "I... I... lov

A writer. The moments of everyday life become spectacular in her hands.  The words flow from her mind, creating a tantalizing story for her readers, those who come back every time just to see what new creation she has brought into the world. A writer. Her prose has comforted many a saddened soul.  Her prose has inspired many a writer, I'm sure.  She can weave a story from anything, from any word, or idea, or a mere spark in her mind. A writer. Her talent has been rightfully renound, but is still not nearly well known enough.  Her own personal style shines into all that she says or writes. 

 It is 1 o' clock, not that the time matters.  The clock is always the only thing that keeps me sane, or in whatever refuge of insanity that I've pulled myself into.  Whichever would do.  Whatever I try to think about, the girl, Katrina, keeps pulling herself back into my thoughts. It's 1:05.  Lunch just ended.  Katrina.  I want to watch TV.  It's 1:06.  Katrina.  I'm turning on the TV.  It's 1:07  Katrina.  This place is so boring.  There's nothing on TV.  Katrina.  I wonder if something was recorded.  It's 1:08.  Katrina.  I'm tired of this crap.  Katrina.  I'm turning off the TV.  Katrina.  Katrina. I stop trying to forget.  The girl w

 Tears fill my eyes.  She doesn't remember. "I've lived here since I was four years old." I say.  The girl in front of me has the most confused expression I've ever seen in my short life. "No, I would've seen you."  Maria hastily tries to shove off the possibility. "You did." "I think I would know that.  Who are you, anyway?" "I told you.  I'm Katrina.  Do you want me to spell it for you?" "No, and I could do without the sarcasm." "What sarcasm?"  I thought I'd been completely straight with her. "Just tell me who you are."  She stresses every word as if talking to a very young child. "I think you know." " No, I don't!"  Sh

 Exercise time at the Hartmen Institute.  This was the best time of the day  The first time in the last twenty-four hours that I, Maria Trifen, has seen the light.  The place wasn't an institute, but an asylum, which we all knew but kept quiet about.  The mountains that surround the dingy gray building really are a sight to see.  The sky is a bright blue canvas and the mountains are the artist's pride and joy.  I begin to daydream about that painter, that they weren't some faceless figment of my imagination, but I, that I had painted the sky and the mountains.  If that was