And so the picture falls.
Bloom.
Nothing.
I can never tell if it's blank, or just hasn't fully developed, but I hate it.
It reminds me of snow, of emptyness, of blank pages left in a journal, of white rooms, of nonsense that I can make nothing out of.
They say white is pure, or that it is a blank canvas, yet here in my darkness I see there is more creativity than in any bright colorless room. Here in my shadows I see so many things. Even when I cry, I still can see colors drop all around me.
I have known I would not be the same. Lance had damaged my brain itself, and merged my imagination with my instincts. Though, I was smart enough to state it to my loved ones that I was not well. The help they offered wasn't as great as the false mask I provided for their sake. Yet no matter how long I smiled along side them, I would find myself reliving the storybook drama Lance had weaved for me.
As the candle reaches its end, I lean to the wall, and cross my legs while resting my hands over my lap. The memories had came, then left, "Finally," yet I knew they would come again. Never had I gone long without them arriving at a short moments notice.
Whispering to the walls, I let them know how I didn't want to see sunlight. I had created my own Bad Box, and somehow found comfort in it.
They tell me I am punishing myself for the deaths that were not my fault, and I nodded, agreeing that perhaps they were right.
Yet how could I forgive myself for destroying a person who had surrendered themselves to me, and I silenced them forever...
YOU ARE READING
His Collection
Mystery / ThrillerDeep in the rural plains of Montana, a charming, half-demented young man with vitiligo, kidnaps young Blanca due to her open-mind, intellect, and kind, accepting nature. She is held captive far from civilization in his small home along with another...
