All the little birdies in the trees. They all look at me funny. They don't know what's wrong with me. Silly birdies. It's not me, it's them. They don't exist. Haha. Silly, silly birdies. Just wait until hunting season. They will know the truth. Right before they fall. Then it will be too late. No one will be there to catch them. No one exists. Ha. Everyone will fall. Then we will know. They will understand, they were never really here. I wonder if anyone else dreams like me. Or when I will wake up.
YOU ARE READING
A journal of the criminally insane.
HorrorYou know, I can still hear her voice sometimes, or her last breath. I wanted to catch it in a jar so she would never stop breathing. So that she would not be lost. But that wouldn’t have saved her. Nothing could. She’s gone. And she’s never coming...
