*woops

I wrote this story, and I rather likes the themes I used and overall simply amusing. There is some language, so read it at your own risk and dont'e be offended. By the way I wrote it, so you cannot steal it.

He stumbled backwards, a wheezing breath catching in his throat. With a wrinkled, shaking hand he felt for the counter behind himself and missed. Space was suspended for a few terrifying moments and time slowed.
The next thing Frank knew was that he laid on the floor, frozen with shock, and the cooled, bloody mess was soaking into his green cardigan. It was strange to him, really. The only thing the old man was considering was the fact that he could never wear this particular outfit again. He stared up at the water stained ceiling, took in the gray, subdued room.
“Isn’t it strange, Tilda?” He whispered to his wife’s body. “I would think that any other man in this situation…” He paused to clear his throat, ignoring the throbbing pain in his head from the fall. “would certainty be going mad, for they’ve just murdered the one person, the only person that truly loved them back.”
He bit his lip and released a pent up sigh. Outside the wind was teasing the bare trees, abusing at the house with it’s cursed yowling. Frank knew the only thing he had left to do was to simply dispose of his recently deceased partner’s body. But how?
The old man let out a groan as he forced his brittle body to sit up. It felt the same as sitting up from bed every morning, besides the fact that the woman beside him, sprawled out in a bloody array would never sit up with him, never again. All the soreness from a long life of hard work came back as Frank pushed himself to his feet and planted his hands on his hips.
The room before him was in absolute disarray. Just ten minutes before it had been a completely normal place. Now it was home to a crime scene.
“And you’re the wise ass that set it up, cracker.” He muttered to himself, reaching to turn on the tap.
It was an old, Victorian style home of three stories. Frank couldn’t remember the last time his poor, aching legs had allowed him past two flights of stairs, so the very top remained alone, gathering it’s own friends of dust and cobwebs. In the living room there were a few overturned chairs, but the rest remained as it had, with its tacky décor as Tilda had liked it.
But the kitchen, on the other hand, was in quite the disposition. The counters were liberated of any kitchen utensil, and all lay shattered and ruined on the floor. Itself, the floor was stained in blood, and littered with a woman’s body. Frank stared at her for some time, trying to accustom himself to the way her right shoulder protruded more so than her left, how her soft, gray hair was now in a hateful mess of crimson.
“Oh Tilda.” He whispered in a soft voice, weighed with sadness. “What am I going to do with you?” Of course she didn’t dare respond in so reposed a state as she was.
Frank hobbled to the window and parted the musty lace curtain. He remembered very clearly that they had been a wedding gift for his wife and himself. Now at the old age of fifty-five they had certainly seen better days.
Outside all things were normal. The wind made the day seem even more so gray, and the houses of the neighborhood seemed to be especially cramped. Frank winced, for at that moment he felt as though all eyes were on him, and on his sin. And panic began to set in, diminishing his strange calm.
He rushed back into the kitchen and began to drag drawer’s out of their places until he came upon the black garbage bags Tilda had, for some insane reason of hers, insisted on buying in bulk. Ripping one out of its package, Frank set about cleaning up his half an hour old crime scene in the wrong order of ways. His old heart complained over the heavy-duty work of picking up the corpse and shoving it into the bag. By the time he had finished, his back ached in the worst kind of way, and stars danced before his eyes. He set her down in the living room, not minding the fact that blood on the outside of the bag was getting all over the worn rug.
It took the man four hours to clean up the scene, including coffee and newspaper breaks, of course, to turn the kitchen back into what it had once been: a ram shackled mess. No one would know the difference.
Now he collapsed into one the of the cheap, plastic green chairs from the seventies and let his head hang back, sweat dripping down his wrinkled neck. He coughed a few times and lit a cigarette. God, murder was hard. Frank wished already that he had chosen a plastic bag instead of a knife.
“And for what?” He wheezed, taking another drag. Tilda had never allowed him to smoke in the kitchen, but that didn’t appear to be a problem now. “Why did you kill her, you cat loving pussy?” Frank didn’t know. Was he going insane? He sat still for a moment, studying the tiny specs of dust in the dull light from the kitchen window. There had been no reason, really.
He thought about all the stories he had read in the paper about murders. The killer had always had some damn fool reason to deplete their loved one, but Frank couldn’t recall one for his. He had simply stabbed the crap out of her.
“Alright, old man, you’ve gotta do somethin’ with her.” No matter how much he really, really didn’t want to, Frank brought himself back up to his weary feet, now visibly hunched over. He glanced at the clock and scowled. It was already twelve-thirty. He looked down at his clothes and sighed. There was no way these clothes could be cleaned up. His kaki, forties-style pants had dried blood all over the seat, and his favorite green sweater was crusted over in a thick layer of the stuff.
The stairs groaned and complained just as badly as his legs did, and Frank bent over, planting his hands on his knees at the top of the stairs for a breather. He slowly brought his head up and stared into the mirror before him. He was shorter now, than he had been in his earlier years, and his bare head resembled a rotten peach. Now, deep, blue-ish spots carved out the places under his eyes and his veins had begun to show themselves at his temples. The old man sighed and stretched up to standing. He shed his clothes and clomped down the hallway, liberated of man’s burden: fabric.
Frank sorted through his meager supply of clothes until he found an old, faded t-shirt, some loose drawers, a pair of ripped factory pants, and his aged corduroy jacket. He forced a smile onto his face as he buttoned his cufflinks.
“It’s the big day, Tils.” He muttered under his breath. “Wanna go swimmin’, or do ya want a big hug from the cold ground?” He wiped a spot of saliva from his mouth as he descended the stairs. “Ya know, Tilda, I always lived my life with no regrets. I think ya should take it as a compliment that this is the one thing I’m really havin’ trouble not regretting.”
The house felt empty. Too empty. Frank stood in the living room for a few moments, staring at the black garbage bag on the floor in front of him. A part of him wanted it to start moving, and for Tilda to rip a hole in it and climb out. He could see her, a wrinkled old woman standing before him covered in blood, mangled. She would plant her hands on her hips and give him one of her famous exasperated sighs, a smile surfacing just below.
“Frank Wichoswski! What in tha hell were ya thinking?! I ain’t ready to be dead!”
He smiled at the image of her in his head and waited a few moments, half expecting for it to truly happen. But it did not. The bag remained still and the house still kept it’s eerie, empty feeling. Frank slowly bent over and shoved his hands under the edges of the bag.
He could feel his wife’s limbs through the thin plastic and he shuddered. With a great heave, he lifted the bag up and saddled it to his right shoulder, spine giving a few painful cracks.
“I’m much too old for murder.” He mumbled, stumbling towards the front door.
Soon the old man was behind the wheel of his 1986 Oldsmobile, shivering in the late autumn air. He glanced in the mirror at the trunk, which refused to close all the way with Tilda inside. There had been too much crap inside, seeing that Frank’s exceeding laziness prevented him from clean the damn thing out. He had use a bungee cable to fasten it, nerves on end. With a look at the revolver on the seat beside himself, Frank put the car into reverse. Getting this scheme over with would prove a difficult task and Mr. Wichoswski didn’t have a clue as to where he was off to.
Frank turned off his road and poked his way through the suburbs. His philosophy was that yes, he was an old man, so he would drive like one. A person shouldn’t try to be something they’re not. He also had an intense fear of being pulled over. He was afraid Tilda might give him away.
“You ain’t a murderer, Frank, so why ya acting like one?” He put his foot lightly on the gas pedal and nudged down Sven st.
A sudden bump dragged a wheezing gasp out his throat, and there was a muffled clumping noise, barely audible to his worn ears. A glance in the mirror nearly stopped his already tiring heart. Behind the car, in the middle of the road, was the black garbage bag, torn open.
“Fuck!” He breathed, stomping on the brake. The car lurched to a stop two feet farther and Frank struggled with the sticky door for a moment before he was able to rip it open and pull himself out.
He hobbled down the street, head swinging in all directions for onlookers. Getting this body back into the car without arousing suspicion was going to prove quite difficult. He was just about to hoist the bleeding bag into his arms when the peal of a siren almost killed him with surprise.
A blue and white deputy’s car pulled up beside him and an overweight man peered out the passenger’s window. He had a thick brown moustache, eyes obscured by large, green tinted shades, and was chewing gum in a rather obnoxious manner.
“Watcha got there, fella?” He smacked, pushing his cap back on his balding head. Wiry brown hair stuck up in all directions.
Frank blinked, biting his lip. He was momentarily distracted by the deputy’s collection of StarWars bobble heads.
“Uuuuhhh…nothin’, sir… you see, my wife was making me clean out the basement.. and there was a…” The old man paused and glanced around. The officer raised an eyebrow, eyeing the bag on the ground. “…a deer! Yes, there was a deer in the basement, and I couldn’t find my gun… so I hacked it up!”
“I see…” The deputy gave another look at the bag, still seemingly unsure. “Need any help with that? Looks like a mess. I might have some paper towels or extra bags in the trunk.”
“Don’t bother yourself with it, sir. I’ll be fine!” Frank smiled. He shook all over, feeling unreal. The officer gave him a prolonged stare before nodding. He spit out his gum and put the car into drive.
“Well if ya need anything just call us.”
“Of course.” Frank grinned, knowing that holes had already been shot through his story. Firstly, how was there a deer in the middle of the suburbs? There wasn’t a forest or even a field for miles. And secondly-
His heart almost stopped, for there, hanging out of the bag, was a limp, purple tinted hand with red fingernails. For a moment Frank almost believed that his wife had returned from the dead. He hadn’t noticed it there before… -had it been there?
“Well I’ll cya l-..” The cop cut himself off and stared at the bag. His sunglasses slid down his nose. “Sir..” He began to get out of the car.
Now Frank backed away. He groped behind himself for the car window, and when he reached it, opened the door. The overweight deputy was struggling out of the car and reaching for his radio. Mr. Wichoswski grabbed the revolver from the seat and in a single heartbeat fired the gun, eyes squeezed shut.
The poor police officer, whose nametag read Arnold Smith, gasped, dropping the radio. He stared down at the bloodied spot buried deep into his chest and stumbled backwards. Tears formed in his eyes. And he fell to the ground. Within moments he was gone forever.
The revolver was still poised, wielded by a shaking hand. Frank tried to blink away the image, but the blood still spilled out onto the street, and the old man still had a mess on his hands, though now he was considerably more so fucked. It is imperative that I use such a vulgar phrase, reader, because all things considered, it is such a good phrase to use! Frank was now dealing with two murders, one an overweight police officer, dead in the road and not getting anywhere fast.
He looked around now, eyes wild. The feeling that he was being watched was almost smothering. It felt as though everywhere there was a being peeking from behind a curtain, peering from behind a tree, watching him from satellite tv.
Mr. Wichoswski bit through his lip nervously. He threw a garbage bag from the cop’s trunk over the body and commenced with dragging him to the car, leaving the horrible trail of blood behind. He, in such distressed, out of mind- out of body state, did not think to consider cleaning up the blood. There was no time to dilly-dally.
The driver’s back door was always difficult to open, and this time Frank sincerely cursed himself for not buying a new car in the past twenty-two years. His spine cracked profusely as he hoisted the limp, bleeding corpse into the back. His hear raced in such a way that he swore pulmonary failure was upon him.
“Ya damn fool, Frank!” He grunted, shoving at the body. “You’re screwed-“
“Watscha doin’?” Frank spun around so quickly he smashed his arm on the door.
In front of him stood a young girl, raising herself up and down on her toes, brown pigtails bobbing back and forth. She grinned, revealing a wide smile lacking her two front teeth.
“Bug off! I’m busy, kid.” Frank’s scratchy voice was riddled with thick mucus.
“Didya catsch a deersth?!” She squealed. The old man gritted his teeth. He clenched his fists and closed his eyes.
“You wanna see what’s going on, kid?”
“Yesth!”
“Well too bad, then! Didn’t your mamma teach ya any manners?” He growled.
The girl’s smile vanished. She blinked and took a step back.
“FINE!” She turned on her heel and stomped off, probably off to terrorize some other poor, innocent, defenseless old man.
Frank felt a little better now that he had left that damn fool second crime scene. He glanced in his mirror and sighed, annoyed at himself. There was an obnoxious lump in his back seat, barely covered. A ratty, thin blanket with faded pictures of Ernie and Bert from the children’s show, Sesame Street, screamed suspicious.
He turned onto the highway and drove west, towards a sparsely populated area where he himself had grown up. Memories of the bare nothingness aroused themselves and rolled over in their deep slumber in his mind.
He is a boy no more than twelve. The kid wears dirty slacks rolled up at the ankles and an old sweater despite the heat. It’s worn at the elbows and it’s rough threadbare has nearly reached it’s breaking point. But he doesn’t care. It’s green, and that’s what he likes. His hair’s in a thick, black disarray, and his freckle spattered face shines in the bright, hot sunlight.
Frank struts over to the chicken house, proud to be helping his father. Scared to make a mistake that’ll land him in his room, ass red, purple, throbbing.
He opens the wire and slips inside, careful to not let the half dead chickens out. They’re suffering something terrible in the heat. He throws feed and collects eggs, being the most cautious he’s ever been in his life, he thinks. It’s so long ago that sometimes it’s hard to remember the details.
“Frank?” His father is coughing as he lights up a cigg.
“Yes sir?”
“Gotta go into town. Coming?”
“Yes sir!”
It takes forty-five minutes to reach Lawton, an almost non-existent town far from anything real. There is nothing but a small group of houses, a courthouse-jail-county office-post office, and a general store.
The truck seems to let out a long, tired groan as his father kills the engine. It sighs and crackles in the July heat. Frank likes the noise. He likes everything about automobiles.
But the thing he likes the most, more than anything (besides green sweaters) has to be the general store. His father is buying seed, since their stock was lost in the barn fire the previous year. The boy wanders through the isles, memorizing the precious products over and over. He marvels at the hair gels and the candy selection. Frank doesn’t dare ask for anything, though.
A mind cloudy with thoughts was one of the most irritating things possible, he thought. It was especially bad when he was in such an exhausted state, thinking the same thing over and over, trying to finish a single thought. Frank was tired. He wanted to be rid of these bodies as soon as he could. Again, his asked to the car, and perhaps the dead officer, why did his rob himself of his wife? No answer. He didn’t know.
The trees grew thicker at one point and the houses became farther and farther apart. Soon in the evening’s twilight their lights ceased to exist. There was nothing out here, as Frank remembered it, and he had missed it more so over the long years in the suburbs.
Soon the trees thinned once more and so did the grass. It was dry and windy, cold in the late autumn’s presence. Frank rolled up the window and pushed down his sleeves. God, he had missed this damn place.
And at last the place showed up. It was an old abandoned quarry. He remembered it closing in his younger days.
“Christ, that was years ago. Remember that, Tilda? We used to go swimmin’ in there!” His voice was scratchy and nervous as he glanced in the review mirror.
The water was at the same level, surprisingly. Frank knew that by the time the bodies were discovered he’d probably be dead. He hoped so, at least. He was nervous to die, suddenly, because he knew Tilda would kill him all over.
He hauled them out of the car. Frank’s heart pounded like a jackhammer as he shoved rocks into the garbage bags.
“One..big..shove!” He grunted. Almost there. Almost to the edge. He would be pissed off if he almost made the edge and then died. Very much so. It felt like a reality tv show gone wrong. Who did this?
“Insane people, that’s who!” Tilda whispered playfully in his ear.
“Ya.. think, Til?” He was breathless. Almost to the edge.
They hit the edge a few times going down, but the bodies smacked the grimy waters with a splash that erupted over the vastly bare landscape, and sunk to the bottom, probably to be heard of again sometime, as things go.
Frank stood up and dusted his pants. And he cried for the first time in years. It was the real crying too, full out sobs and tears stained cheeks.
“I’m fucking insane, ain’t I?” He gasped, rubbing his face. “I didn’t even give ya a proper funeral!”
The old man stood for a long time, watching as the night faded and dawn raised. Life was so long, but so short at the same time. He felt the heavy guilt of having taken the life of Tilda, and even the policeman. It wasn’t fair. He lit a cigarette and sighed.
“Oh well. Maybe today’ll be flawless, Tilda. Can’t be so without you. Waddaya gonna do, though? I got stuff to do, I suppose. Someone’s gotta read the paper and spend hours in the store. Of course I won’t buy anything. It’s just what old people do, and I ain’t one to break the tradition.” He took another look at the dawn. It was cold. “Goodbye, Tilda. Please don’t hate me for this, because I love you so dearly.”
He drove back towards the suburbs, nearly nodding off several times. It had been years since he’d stayed up all night. He didn’t relish it, either. All the other fogies would be up now and curious as to why he was coming home and sleeping.
He’d been so lost in his thoughts, so absorbed, that he barely reacted when the car took on a shocking jolt. When it registered, Frank slammed on the brake and shakily climbed out. He clomped around the backside of the car.
“Goddamn it.” He breathed.
Before him, lying mangled in the road was a little girl with brown ponytails.

I hate the truth in "a picture can paint a thousand words"

Narcissism.

Do you feel alive?

I'm too busy with editing to write here. Sometimes it's nice to know that by writing through here my mother understands me better. I believe I've achieved a little bit more freedom. Maybe. I'm not sure if it counts. Any how, here's me and some of the kiddies.:)

A place between Sleep and Awake, end of Innocence, unending Masquerade

I've been debating on whether or not I should write about a certain subject, but I've opted to do so. I know that I cannot possibly be alone in this situation, but sometimes that's exactly what I feel.
I have to admit, it is one of the most difficult things in the world to go against everything I've ever been taught. But I don't believe it, so I must get out. They told me that my human reasoning is wrong, and constructed in such a way that if corrupts the way I think of god. How can I possibly believe that? Perhaps there is some deity, but I do not think on single religion on this earth has it completely right. I cannot follow something in which I do not totally believe- especially when it makes me miserable in the worst ways.
That is my justification, my point is this: I have no support from my parents, my siblings, or any of my friends in the church that I grew up with.(Which happen to be my cousins too.)It's extremely difficult to go through everyday with everyone I've known my whole life looking down on me- and being verbal about it too, simply because of that fact that I'm choosing a different path than them. Perhaps one day I will regret it, but at the moment I'm happy, and I plan on living each day to the fullest. I will be out of the church and still be a decent person. I want to prove that it's possible, because everyday they tell me how much of a fool I am, to put it in simple terms, and it's all my mother ever wants to talk about. Every chance she gets, she is asking me why I think I can survive outside of the church. Perhaps because people have been doing it for hundreds of years? That is my complaint. I know they love me and only want whats best for me, but couldn't they be in such a way that I do not feel like such a complete disappointment to them? I'm not sure if they can. I know I'll survive this, though. Just because I'm not interested in the church doesn't meant I'm going to go crazy and turn into some stoner/drunk whore. I'm not like that, and I know that I will never be that way. I really wish I could make them understand that. I will never do those things. I'm going to make something of myself, and I want to show them that. Lilium don't forget you said this, please. Read this someday, and smile, because you've fulfilled it:)
This week has been fairly good. What am I saying? It probably couldn't have been better, really. I got my prom dress on Wednesday and I'll be sure to put up picture of prom when that happens. I rather like that it's a simple brown dress. I've had track this week and that's gone quite well. I finally got my longjump down and I'm running faster! There isn't much to tell, but simply exclaim that I'm happy. I've also started writing a new story. I don't know where it'll go or what will happen, but I really hope that it can spread it's wings and fly. And also, I am in the process of deeply editing HeadRush. I've taken a lot out and put a lot in. After this I'm not really sure what to do with it.
I went to the pool tonight and Camille, who is two, threw a plastic boat and it hit my in the head. Right now it's pounding so badly I can barely see. And when Sam saw this, he initially frowned, and then began to laugh. How kind of him haha. "Band aid?" He asked. Why thanks, sir. Anyhow, I think I might be sick from it, which is a sign of a concussion, right? Ugh I hope I don't have that. Oh well this is turning into an "I" fest, so I will stop writing now.

I should not be writing here, I should most likely be sleeping, which is all I honestly feel like doing. I haven't the slightest clue why I am still awake at the moment.
This week has been one of stress, I believe, but I've enjoyed every moment of it. I had a track meet earlier this week in which I got 13.21 on my two mile race- came in 3/3, which made me really upset. I hate loosing and I hate sucking at running. I want to be better, and I want to win. I find myself now in the position in which I will probably run the 4x8 and the 1600. I hope that, at least. I'm definably doing the 400 hurdles, which is very exciting for me. I love hurdles, and I love the single lap deal. There is also the proposition of longjump. I have a sufficient jumping length apparently, but I fault too often. That needs work.
Anyhow, this week was fun. I just love running so much, even though I'm not the best at it. I'm still upset about my meet. A part of me hopes to be better, and a part knows I will be. My ankle still hurts from rolling it!
Now that I'm on spring break, I've a list of activities I must complete. One is clean my room, including the bloody laundry. Another is pain a picture of Sen from Spirited Away on my wall, or something like that. If that turns out unsuccessful I can always work at accomplishing a story, or editing HeadRush, which needs it terribly. And one of the items on the top of my list is finding a dress for prom. My parents finally granted me permission to attend and I have to find a dress. Prom is pretty soon and they're all most likely gone. I'm looking into a shorter black one at the moment. I like the idea of that. Then again, I'm not so much into the idea of dresses in the first place. Shopping and clothes are not my idea of fun, but I'll get over it. I'm going to find a dress and be done :D
Well goodnight, I have stuff to do tomorrow:)

Today I resolved that I would not be the type of person to become annoyed and miserable at every rift in the log, every wrinkle in the dress, spot on the rug in life. A friend of mine was having a rough day. With the way she cried I thought that perhaps she had lost someone very dear to her, but later discovered that she cried so over school grades! I decided that I she could be like that if she so wished, but not I. I have bigger fish to fry than let myself go at every mishap. I learned that lesson the hard way and I never wish to forget it, no matter what.
I went for a walk last week with sam, and I saw the most inspirational tree I could have possibly spotted, I think. This tree bent over the path in an arch-like grace, giving me the perception that another world laid beyond it, and perhaps that is so. I cannot be sure. I have always wanted to discover something like that. The problem being, though, that I would never return. There are indeed some things in the mortal world that I count as valuable. Things I would never give up, not for a million heavens. I do not care what the church says about them, either. I love my family, for one, and I will not put them second whilst I still have them in my grasp.
Anyhow, I decided to draw this certain tree for my art project and put in a few things to spice it up. I can't believe I just put the phrase 'spice it up' out. Certainly it's too late at night, or something of that nature. I am tired.
Today sam again tested his 'Lilium is ticklish, I think' theory, and almost killed me, I measure. I was at my locker being entirely distracted with what I should bring to my next class, when HELLO LILIUM, IT'S ME, sam!!! He pulled the jumper cables while yelling something incomprehensible in my ear. In response I instantly screamed and turned around, smashing my knee on the locker door. I then fell into the locker, laughing uncontrollably. Of course he, laughing too, helped me out and managed to balance me. I ask him time and again to not test his theory around so many people, but to no avail. He finds it too amusing. Of course I realized he too is very ticklish...hmmm...
Track practice was killer today, but now I'm home wanting to run again. It is frustrating to be on distance. Today there were only three girls. The girl ahead of me can run like the wind, and I've no idea how. It annoys me a bit, because she knows is and uses is at our dispenses. Today we were made to run the cross country course before we worked on field events. I could not find the other girl, who is an average runner, so I set off with the fast one and two other distance running boys. She had asked me to come also. We got on the trail and I felt as though I had to sprint to keep up with them, which was absolutely killing my sprained ankle. Within ten minutes they outran me and I was alone on the trails, struggling to find them again. It makes me so angry. Not at them, but at myself. Why can I not run like them? No matter how much I train I cannot accomplish the speed and distance factor. It really puts me out. I eventually stumbled upon the other girl jogging slowly with a boy. I ran with them, even though they were very slow. It's better than sprinting and feeling like crap about myself.
Well, adieu. I'm off to make chocolate chip cookies and then shower and bed.

For the past three days I've done nothing but drift in and out of real thoughts. I have a confession to make. I woke up Wednesday morning with the strong suspicion of fever, and purposely did not take my temperature. I went to school as if everything was normal. Sometimes I must ask myself why I'm so entirely thick headed.
As soon as sam saw me, he put a hand to my forehead. I must have looked ravishing. And by the time I got home from track I had a sufficiently high fever. I didn't sleep well, of course. Yesterday morning I woke and went to take a shower, already having missed school, and fainted. I consider myself luck to have not hit my head and drowned, or something dramatic such as that. I simply have a bruise on my forearm and again on my lower back. I did nothing to complete the day besides sleep. Today I've been much better, but will miss out on the youth girls' trip up north. Oh well. I hope to be much better tomorrow. I've nothing else to say, besides the fact that it's beautiful outside! I love the baby green leaves on the trees. I believe I've stopped missing this new spring.

It seems as though I haven't much to say, but I'll try.
I'm barely able to wake myself, although I've been suffering from a terrible, indescribable nightmare, such as every night for the past two weeks. I wonder, what is it that beckons these demons into the chambers of my mind? It is by my own hand?
My stomach is still burned from Friday's trip to the beach and I wince as my shirt goes over my head, shivering from the chill spring dawn. Yet I can smile to myself, enjoying the sunbathed room.
School never matters too much for me. In all honesty I couldn't care less about my grades. I care for my friends, and that's the extent of the situation. This reflects clearly on my tanned visage the moment I cross the barrier of the outside world into one of more tightly bound rules and less freedom. Yet, it seems there is some source of happiness.Of course there must be, since school is the only place in which I can see my friends. Otherwise I am banned from such. I haven't quite figured out why, for my friends are truly good.
I'm distracted today. Not one part of myself is paying heed to art critique. Instead, I observe the feeble green leaves on the trees, newly birthed from spring. It seems so strange what winter is over, for how can it be? While experiencing the cold and snow, and constant gray it seemed a lifetime, but now that I see the trees and the maturing grass, I ask myself what I've missed, for surely I've missed something.
My memories are imprinted with the birth of warm weather, the certain smell of mud mixed with sunshine, and the singing of water as it flows into brooks and creeks. I feel as though I experienced nothing of that this year. Where Have I been? It is strange, but I'm not bother.
I go through the day with the same carefree happiness as the day before, and last week. I can happily say that I've found a place, and I want it to last. I would describe the rest of my day, but it's late, and happiness is boring. I cannot pour my heart out unless it's fiction or I'm upset haha :P

A part of me questions as to where I should begin with today. I feel a strong urge to narrate it in third person, so I will do so.
A part of her knew it was a dream, for how could she really be where she was? She was lying on the couch with him, in unexplainable bliss. Surely nothing could be better.
But there was something.. not quite right. Yes, it was a warm evening, but certainly not as warm as she felt now. Sweat trickled down the back of her neck and a strong urge to squirm out of her hoodie constantly picked at the back of her mind. Outside the early April crickets were singing, and that was all she could hear save for his soft breathing. But it was so hot! How could it possibly be so? The girl frowned tiredly and tried to move.
The room raced past, and she was lying on her back in the sunbathed bedroom. The window was not open, and she was fully clothed, covered by her winter set of blankets.
"That explains it." She murmured. She felt melted, slick and disgusting.
Lilium turned on her side and dragged herself out of bed, wincing in pain at her new sunburn. The room was almost too bright. She stared at her sleep-stained visage in the pooled reflection and sighed. It would never matter what she looked like, for the flower would fall, and she would be nothing but a brittle piece of flesh, expecting the last breath with a mixture of excitement and curiosity.
Mhm other things happened, but I'm much to busy to recall them. I have to take note of my musings during the day so that I do not forget them. I think some are rather profound. I fine it a pity they're lost in the sea of my memories.

Today began with me awaking at eight am and smiling! I believe that's a fairly good beginning. As you probably know, it's Good Friday. It doesn't mean much more than a off from school to me. I had track practice, which was exceedingly amusing. We did relays and stuff with carrots and gelatin jelly beans, in which S. teased me to death and repeatedly asked if I wanted gelatin. His favourite food it steak haha. Anyhow it was a good practice. I ate a carrot haha.
Afterward Mariel, Aaron, and Margaret came to pick me up so we could to go the beach. As my camera card is lost I could not photo document this. They yelled at me for getting out late, assuming it was because I was with sam. Whatever. The coaches let us out late every single day.
The beach was very warm. I just layed there and read my book and got very sunburned. And now I'm home, burnt, nauseous, and I couldn't possibly be happier!