Well, I didn't really expect to write something so soon, and least of all start a new story, but here you go! I hope you like it. I know it's bit sad and all of that... Chapters will hopefully come without too much time inbetween. Let me know what you think! I think that this was the most difficult thing I ever had to write. Again, if you see any mistakes, let me know. I try to keep up with those kind of things, but I'm not always the best at editing my own work.




I want to cry. Even now, I can feel the tears behind my eyes, threatening to break free; the blur of your vision when you want to break, to let the sobs run free from their hiding place inside your chest, where they way down on you. Some people say that it's good to cry, that it's like a relief from everything on your shoulders. That's not true. It's never been true. Crying only makes it worse, because you can never control the tears that come, you can never stop the feelings of hurt and anger. I want to be numb again. I want to push back every emotion that I have ever felt. Love—it's gone, disappeared from my life. I can't feel it anymore, only the bitter anger for the people that I once loved enough to die for. Anger is good—it has no limits, has to ties to the outside world. Anger doesn't make sadness—anger won't betray you. I couldn't tell you everything, every reason why anger is my best friend, and hate is a close second. I couldn't tell you the complicated story that made me like this. Why I'm crying into my pillow at this very moment, wishing for something, anything.

Why does the world work like this? Why did I even have to be born? It's obvious that my father never wanted children, and my mother was so tired of everything. I was the burden, the one the money is needed for, to pay for school, clothes, and comforts. They wouldn't have to work so much if a child didn't cost so much money. They resent me for that, even if they never say such a thing. They took everything away from me, even my own emotions. How are you supposed to grow up in a world that you were never wanted in? That when you don't know all the answers to people's endless questions, it's a harsh punishment? When they just stopped trying to explain things to you, because they just don't care at all anymore? What do you do then?

I wish something would happen! Like in those books were everything is magical or the tale of a romance between this beautiful girl and that handsome boy. I'm not as ignorant as to think a boy would fix anything, but it would be so nice to have someone just to hold you, even if they are only after one thing. I wanted to be someone else, anyone! I wanted to be in one of those fiction novels that were my favourite before I couldn't even stand to look at them. They were glaring, mocking me, for I would never have a life like that. I was doomed for hate, anger. I was would never make anything out of myself in life. I would be that bitter old woman, but without the twenty cats, for I can't stand them.

Couldn't I just for once, have something happen to me? Why couldn't I get that letter saying I was a witch or an heir of a powerful god? Why couldn't I be the one with the vampire blood in my veins, leading me on crazy adventure?

I used to write you know. I would write all of these immature stories about witches, vampires, and even elves! But I can't write anymore. Like most things, they haunt me, reminding me of everything that my parents ever did, everything I would never be. I've deleted everything I've ever written from my computer, leaving its documents completely blank. I've changed myself in hopes of being someone else, but it's impossible.

I'll still be me no matter who I try to act like.

It was hopeless, it's always hopeless. Nothing exciting is ever going to happen to me. I'll never be that hurt broken girl that gets stitched up on the inside by her best friends and her love interested. I'll never be the main character of those chapters that you read every night.

I'll never get to escape from this horror that I live in every day.

Sometimes I think of death, wondering if anything would be better if I just killed myself. And why shouldn't I? Why shouldn't I just close my eyes and point the gun at my head, a whispered last word and everything would be alright? I would be free, finally, from everything. But as much as that calls to me, I wouldn't be free. We don't know what is on the other side—what happens after we die. We don't know if it would be worse than death or not. What if it was worse? What if life was the good parts of eternity, something you think back on when you are immersed in the fiery pits of something we all call Hell?

I guess in a way I fear death, for we all fear the unknown right? Death is unknown. Death is the unknown of everything we have ever tried to know. We could be separated from everyone we know forever, or we could be put with people who hate us just as much as we hate ourselves. How is everything supposed to get better in death, if we don't know what it is—or will be?

I could fight it, fight the hate and fight the anger that flows through me. But I can't. I'm so tired. I want to give up. I want to disappear in a dark whole and never wake up. I'm weak. I always have been, I've just covered it by a fog of strength—an illusion.

Illusions were the best. They lead you to believe this or that, then ripped you apart when you finally realize that they weren't true. What is true? How do we know that life isn't just an illusion—that we aren't those people being controlled every day, and some brave hero is trying to rescue us? I shouldn't think like this, I know, it's not right, it's abnormal.

I've always been insane, so why should I care anymore? I'm messed up in the head and would give anything to actually be normal, to fit in for once—to gain my parents unconditional love.

It's stupid, but I would give anything for a nice believable illusion right now.

I hate myself, for tears now run down my cheeks.