Even Birds Have Songs

14. X, Allen, and Kim

*Hazel*

At least we have the last tourney together? I think. Ugh, its too

complicated to think. So I think I will stop thinking about thinking

these thoughts.

That's too complicated to think about, never mind. I'll just drop the subject.

Life is weird. I feel like its confession time almost. So to get in

the mood, why don't I SET the mood??'

I left the house in a hurry and ran down near-ish to the river where

my favorite tree stood.

I quickly climbed to the top and sat there in the almost dark night.

I looked down at my hand.

On the top almost near my wrist was a scar shaped like an 'X'.

I remember all the events leading up to it. Jack playing me along and

ditching me, then along came Riley... Oh Riley... Tears sprang to my

eyes.

For all of you who don't know... I'm such a dramatic person. Everything is important to me. And

Sometimes, I just feel like pulling out my box of memories, and telling stories about my past.

*

Why did things have to go down like they did? I feel so confused all

the time. I know I should just let it all go, but I won't. I can't.

Just like I can't let go what happened to Allen. I still wake up

screaming because of the nightmares I have of him. They're always the

same.

~All around me is the familiar scent of decaying concrete and wood.

The light shining through the large stain glass windows gives the room

an uneasy feel. Shadows dance along the floor and opposite wall as I

walk along the creaking aged floor. I look straight forward and see a

large dome. Along all the walls is the unmistakably familiar pattern

carved into stone. It almost looks like flames or feathers. The only

light in the room is the dim gleam coming from the windows, and I stop

walking. All is silent.

Then the screaming starts.

The piercing blood-chilling screams that unmistakably come from the

depths of Allen Parish. One after another, yell after yell, the cries

for help. The help I can't give. He's dying. Torture of course.

Sometimes by flames, others by the knife, and sometimes just by pure

abuse to his poor body.

I see the figure of his torturer, and he mocks me. But never once am I