This is it. I am done. I can’t anymore. I don’t understand and I don’t want to. Whatever I did, whatever I’m capable of I don’t want to remember it. I don’t want to be that person. I don’t want to be capable of such thing. I don’t want to be sick either. Am I sick? I don’t know. They won’t tell me. The sea breeze is nice. It blows in my hair. The blanket around my shoulders is so warm. I like it. Their all looking at me so concerned. I don’t know why. I don’t get it. What’s wrong with me? Am I really that alarming. I don’t look at them. If I am crazy like they say, than they probably aren’t even real. My friends are dead, I killed them, didn’t I?
Isn’t that why they locked me away? I’m considered crazy because I killed them. I murdered my own friends. I let them die. Same thing really. Their graves are filled. He’s here too. He’s sitting on the floor, leaning against my chair, staring up at me. I love him. But I hate the look on his face. So much pity.
No I can’t do it, I must lock myself away and never come out. Never think of them or care. Isn’t that what they want? For me to be alright. For me not to be sad anymore. And I’m not. I’m not sad anymore. I’m done.
shortstorylives 