E. 6 | PLUCKING HEART STRINGS

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ENTRY 6:
[ PLUCKING HEART STRINGS ]


DEAR YOU,

    Everyone stared at me, with disgust-filled eyes, as if I had suddenly became the village Frankenstein. They were all whispered behind their hands, coming up with there own twisted tales of what had happened that faithful night. 

     They didn't know, they would never know.

     I don't know why they were yelling at me, I don't know why they were all staring at me, I don't know why the lights are flashing in our windows, I don't know why the neighborhood had gathered around our house, as if we were some tourist attraction. I don't know why they were yelling at me. 

     I don't know why everything was happening like this. 

     They grabbed me, I panicked; I screamed and thrashed. 

     I don't want to be put in the dark again. Not in the dark place. I would be trapped again. I would be trapped in the darkness—forever and ever. No one would let me out.

     I screamed so loud, my throat burned; 

     YOU'RE MAKING A MISTAKE! YOU CAN'T DO THIS! NO! NO! YOU CAN'T! I WON'T LET YOU!

     Everyone stared; stared so hard I could feel them on my skin. I could feel the tears brim in my eyes, dripping down my face, till they rested in-between my parted lips. Please, I thought, not the dark, again. I'll die this time. I will. I can't.

    Stop.

    The officer had his cuffs around my wrist, so tight I can't breath. 

     Let me go.

    YOU CAN'T DO THIS! THIS ISN'T FAIR, I scream. 

     I can't think properly, the words are scribbled and messy, because I can't think properly. I can hear their thoughts, they're all thinking the same thing as they stare at me. They're all thinking the same thing, at the same time. I can hear it. They're all thinking; Life isn't fair, sweetheart. This is how it ends.

     I'm in a room filled with metal and reeks of death, they ask me if I have someone to call. I get one, they said. Choose wisely. I say your name. I say it like a pray. I say it so many times my lungs burn, ready to cave into themselves.

     I feel my emotions mix together. GOD, YOU'LL REGRET THIS!  I'LL MAKE SURE OF IT! I can't feel my resentment fill me. I don't know what I'm doing, what I'm feeling. I'm a mess. 

     They stared at me; wide-eyed, disgusted. 

     I can hear the officer snarl.

    You're sick, he whispers. 

     If you were here, you'd know what to do. you'd smile at them, with those big lovely lips, and they'd listen. They'd all listen. You did that to people, made them hear you. If you said, let them go, they'd let me go.

     They don't listen to me, they'd don't hear me. 

     I feel like a little boy; crying out their mother's name when they're lost, calling out with the fear that they'll be gone forever. But instead of my mother, it's you. And instead of the aisles of a supermarket, it's the cells of a prison. I can taste the tears in my mouth, and they taste like salt and isolation.

     The man beside me has wet his underwear, lying against the flat board in the room. A drunk. Homeless. He is wearing nothing but dirty white underwear and a unbuttoned flannel. The room reeked of urine, now. But he doesn't notice, or he doesn't care, and he lets the liquid fall down his bare thigh, and pool around him.

     I push myself against the wall. What—What are you doing? 

     I watch as he cranes his neck to the side, looking at me with those yellow-rotten teeth and snake-like lips. I watch as his mouth moves, but I don't hear the words he is saying. I follow his lips, I watch them move. I watch as his tongue curls and his mouth move.

     I flinch.

     You're scaring me, I whisper.

     He snatched my wrist. His long, untrimmed finger rip into my skin. Stop! Stop! I scream. You're hurting me!

    YOU'RE GOING TO DIE HERE, the drunken man had said.

     I pull myself away. I feel my body shake and shutter. 

     Please—I... I don't want to die.


FROM ME.

DEAR YOU, | ✓Where stories live. Discover now