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owlmoonboi · 8 months ago

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Darkness! Everything was cloaked in darkness. From the sky to the rocky cliffs everything was darkness. Shadows loomed. It felt cold, bleak and numb. The fear of succumbing to the darkness grew with each passing second but being strong enough to press on in search for light felt impossible. It felt like one in a million chances. There was a very small chance of being able to free myself or any of the lost souls trapped in this place known as “The Void”. A place that isn’t completely life or death. It is the inbetween. In a sky with endless limits there is only one moon and that was how little hope I had.

I felt something cold and metal touch my soft skin. I looked up at the sky only to realise a cold metal rain was coming from sporadic purple clouds that shifted and turned, forming haunting figures. The metal was just pouring down as though it was natural. It was as though for this world it was their rain. “I wonder why their rain is different?’” I mumbled but there was no one around to answer. Not a single soul. No signs of life. I was all alone. I was alone and scared and didn’t know what to do.

As time passed by my blood turned to ice. I just sat on the hard cracked ground shaking while tears rolled down my face. I had never realised how cold the cold is or how dark the darkness is or even just how lonely being alone is. I needed someone to come tell me everything was going to be alright but I knew it wasn’t going to happen. How could it happen? I know I’m not strong enough. Not strong enough to get back up when I fall or strong enough to escape the darkness. I’m not strong and I never will be.

My eyes shot open. My eyes slowly adjusted to the light of the sun creeping between the curtains creating stripes on my blue walls, giving me a sense of familiarity. Even though I’ve been living here for a while it still doesn’t yet feel like home. Each day I awake with the fear that today might be the day I am sent away. It wouldn't be the first time and probably not the last. I have been through more homes than I am years old and I’m fifteen. I worry that I will never find a family and succumb to darkness like the rest of the kids. The system is broke. You’re sent to live your own life at eighteen if you don’t have a home. Plenty of people end up doing drugs and die of issues such as substance abuse or suicide. It is a cruel truth to grasp but nevertheless it is the truth. It is something that may end up becoming my future but i hope it doesn’t. I can’t have that happen. I need to be able to live a good life for my Mother. Oh how I miss my Mother and love her with all my life. She died in a car crash which only led to my fear of being in cars. I had just been to the doctors with her since I had colic and her boyfriend, my Father Drew had came to pick us up. Little did she know he had been drinking. She told him to slow down but he wouldn’t. He never swerved when the car came for us or stopped at the traffic lights. She had died, he went to jail and I went to hospital with concussion and second degree burns from when the car turned to flames. There was shattered glass everywhere. Even though the glass wasn’t a mirror I believe that was what has given me bad luck except it has been more than seven years since then. This happened when I was three years old. I was so young but I can remember it perfectly. It is like a scene from a movie always playing in the back of my mind. It plays over and over. If it was a disc it would’ve scratched by now. I honestly just wish the memory could disappear. I don’t need that memory. It does no good. All it does is turn my dreams to nightmares, make me know the reason I’m living such a shitty life, make me hate my father and give me my fear of cars. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to be brave enough to get back in a car. Every Time I have ever been in a car I have a panic attack. It is hard to bounce back up when you fall down. I’m not a ball. People like balls. Some people love them. That’s why people play sports but nobody loves me. Not even myself. How can I? I was never taught to love. The only moment where I ever feel loved is when I look at the picture I have of my Mum in a small gold locket. I feel warmth when looking at her. I feel her touch. She is brushing my hair and singing a nursery rhyme but what the nursery rhyme is something of a lost of a lost memory. When I’m done with looking at the picture all I am left with is questions and sadness but these questions have answers out of my reach. Will I ever see my Father again? If I see him again will he tell me he loves me? If he tells me he love me will I believe him? Will I be able to say those words back? Will I hate him? Will I be angry with him? Will I ever be part of a family and if there is a family who adopts me will I feel like a part of that family? Will I ever feel truly loved? Will I ever fully understand love? These questions bounce about the walls of my mind like a ball in an amateur match of pingpong.

I sat up. My head was throbbing. I felt like I was going to be sick. I slowly got to my feet. My feet felt weak and my legs wobbled. I was a stack of dominoes ready to cascade. That moment of cascading felt like it might happen now. I used my bed as support to help me stand. Slowly with each step I got the strength to stand up properly. I felt extremely sick with each step and worried that my head would fall off from all the pain it was causing me but at least I was able to stand without falling over.

When I got to the bathroom the first thing I did was throw up. I crouched with my hands pressed against the sides of the toilet bowl for balance while a chunky spew that reeked splashed amongst the inside of the toilet like ink leaking from a pen. Ink leaking from a pen is a way I describe many things. I guess it’s because at times when I felt I was unable to speak I wrote down what I had to say so now pens seemed to be an item of significance to me. It had been my voice and the paper I wrote on was a friend to console in. The paper and pen are two inanimate objects yet to me they were things I could believe in. Items I sought comfort from.

I finished throwing up. I wiped my mouth with a piece of toilet paper before flushing. The soap was yellow and squishy. It slipped between my fingers but I was able to get it back unlike hope. Hope a four letter word that means to believe and to have faith. People usually hold close to them in times of struggle and need but we never really realise what it means to hope until we feel the need. We never think of hope sticking with us in a time of need. We never thank it for helping us to find light at the end of the tunnel or when we are able to stop ourselves from sinking into the waves of darkness. We expect hope to stick by us no matter what. We expect hope to stay in the same sense we think the sun will rise the next morning but what do we do if hope leaves? If we are left in the darkness and there is no hand to grab onto to lead us the way, what do we do? You know what we do? We do absolutely nothing since humans are fuckin’ useless. We can love but we choose hate. We can choose peace but we choose war. We can make the world a better place but then we make the world a worse place. Worst of all we are such hypocrites who hate on people but we make the same mistakes. I make these same mistakes but I still hate others for them which is absolutely wrong. I know it is wrong. People know the things that we do but we don’t change. People may try but no one ever fully changes. No one no matter how good of a person they are.

I walked down the hallway back to my room. Well that is called my room. It still doesn’t feel like my own room and honestly I don’t know if it ever will. I get out of my pjs and put on my school uniform. A white button~up, grey trousers and a dark blue blazer in the same shade of blue as the tie we were made to wear. The blazer had the school emblem on the right breast. We were also made to wear leather dress shoes which felt tight on my teeth. They hadn't been tight when I first got them but now they pinched on my toes but I didn’t dare to say about the tightness of my shoes as I know they were expensive and it is kind enough of the Harley’s to be taking care of me so I don’t want to add any more stresses. I can’t imagine how hard it must be to take in a child when you already have a baby. So without complaint I wear this uniform I despise but not nearly as much as I despise maths or exams or being in cars.

I walk down the wooden steps. Even though my arms are long enough to reach the railing it always feels out of reach like how asking for help always seems too hard. So I don’t ask for help. If someone is rude to me at school I teach them about my fists. If I am failing a subject I just fail since I don’t want to ask my teachers questions. If I ask them questions they’ll ask me questions and I don’t think they’ll like my answers to their questions. Even though my answers will only be the truth. I have always been taught that honesty is the best policy but no one really likes the truth. The truth is cold, harsh and hard. Everyone always wants the watered down version of things. That’s why books and movies have happily ever afters. Happily ever afters don’t happen in real life. In real life there are highs and lows but most of the time we are looking at grass that we think is greener but when we sit on it we realise our grass is just as green. It’s just that sometimes things might look different. Or we perceive things to be different as we are always wanting for more. For something to be better. We search for the best so much that sometimes we forget to live life. We got that it’s all of the small things that make a big picture. It isn’t just one brushstroke to create a painting. It’s lots of little strokes. I think that is the way we should view our lives. To make the most of things. Instead of being upset when it rains we can say to ourselves that the rain helps plants to grow which means we have crops to eat, we have puddles to splash in and being wet means that we can later get dry. It’s always t\nice to have a nice hot towel after a shower. Why can’t we think more like that? Why can’t I think more like that? I’m a pessimist but I long to be an optimist. I think it would be nice to see the world through rays of sunshine instead of grey clouds. Except maybe seeing the world in grey clouds is a good thing since I might get the chance to better understand others. To be more empathetic. To be more persevering when something bad happens as I’m used to seeing the world as a bad place so I can’t fall much deeper. I wonder how deep can one fall? Sometimes I feel like I’m standing at the edge of a cliff waiting. I’m unsure as to whether I’m waiting for the courage to jump or the strength to take a step backwards. Except I’m not sure if it’s courage that makes you jump. I think it’s fear. I think it means you’re afraid to live which honestly I sometimes am scared to live. The only reason I choose to live is for my Mum as I know she would want me to have the best life I can. I don’t think she would be happy with how life is at the moment. I wonder what Daddy dearest would think but he’s a jailbird.

When I get to the bottom of the steps I turn to enter the kitchen that has green walls. Green was the colour of my Mother’s eyes so as much as I like the food Mrs Harley makes I never feel at peace in the kitchen. I always feel something is off.

For breakfast I had butter toast that was slightly burnt. We had no cereal left and there was no peanut butter. Not that I am that fond of peanut butter. It always seems a bit too salty. Which is quite strange since I like other foods when they are salty such as chips but I guess that’s different since if it’s too much salt you can brush it off the salt. That is something able to be controlled. It is always nice to have the feeling that something is in your control. It makes coping easier. It makes it easier to go with the wind. I want to one day be able to spread my arms the way a bird spreads its wings and just see the world. Look down at the world from the sky. To be a star. To be able to watch without having to live. To be free without going anywhere. To be there but not. To be looked at but not watched.To be seen as a light instead of darkness.

After breakfast I packed my bag, brushed my teeth and caught the bus to school. I wish I didn’t have to catch the bus. I hate being on the bus. The bus driver is always yelling. Kids scream. Boys bash each other up while they compare girls to trees and cars. I’m not sure which one is worse to say. They say a girl is like a tree since they want to climb her while they say a girl is like a car since their dick is the key to get her started. While the boys objectify women the girls do the same about guys. Rating them out of ten and saying who is most desirable. I swear to god everyone is too invested in sex. Everyone makes out it’s some amazing thing but to me all it seems to be is an excuse to unzip pants or rip off a bra before getting on top of someone. I don’t want to be getting on top of anyone and I certainly don’t want someone to get on top of me. That’s not to say I’m against love. I think love is a nice thing but I don't think you need sex to love someone. I think people have the right to have sex but they don’t need to talk about it. I think it should stay in the bedroom or wherever they do it but the point being is that you shouldn’t talk about it in public. Of course you should learn about it in PE since then you know about safe sex and people should learn about issues of rape. I think people should feel comfortable to be able to say if they were sexually assaulted but we don’t need to talk about how quickly the guy got hard, who was on top or what cum tastes like.

I get off the bus nonchalantly hoping to remain invisible. It would be nice to have the power to turn invisible. I would definitely use that in maths so the teacher wouldn’t call on me. I hate having to say the answer to a question since I almost always get it wrong. I’m not very good at most subjects. I’m best at art. I like art. I like drawing best. I think it would be nice to be an artist. To be able to sell your work. To have people wanting your art. I think to be known as an artist would just have such an amazing feeling. It would feel like being on top of the world. Only I have yet to experience a feeling like that.

Mindless chatter fills the luminous grey halls that is a stark contrast to the primary coloured lockers. Well what most people call the primary colours. I believe the primary colours are actually yellow, cyan and magenta. Those colours make the most sense.

I watch girls hold hands white they skip through the halls. Boys playfully push each other while walking out the bathroom that always smells like piss and the other stuff I don’t want to know. I’ve heard the girls bathroom always smells of smoke which makes sense. Girls can be drawn to smoke due to the misconception that smoking helps you to lose weight and more females than males tend to have eating disorders. There are plenty of guys with eating disorders but it mightn’t always be as recognizable since most of the time it is a binge eating disorder so you may just think the person is large without pinning it to a reason as to why they are.

I reluctantly make my way to Mentoring. I wish we didn’t have mentoring. Without mentoring we could have ten minutes left of school; those ten minutes would be an extra two minutes added to each subject so maybe it’s better to have mentoring. It’s just that mentoring is so boring. Nobody really talks in mentoring except for Jade and Skye as well as Matt who occasionally while pretty much everyone else sits in silence mindlessly looking at their phone screen. I wish I did have a phone. At least I could be on it in mentoring even though you’re not supposed. It would mean I could fit in a little bit more. At the moment I am that weird kid who barely speaks and has no social media. I don’t have a device to even have a social media account, not that I know anyone I would message on social media. I have some friends but I’m not very close. I can’t let myself get too close since I know something will change. Everything changes eventually. I’ve already lost enough friends and not all have been due to moving. Malik wasn’t. He was killed by his mind. If only I had known how he felt. Maybe I could’ve helped. Except what could I have done. His boyfriend Ashden raped him. I knew but couldn’t tell anyone. It was our secret. He swore to me to keep it and I had this the whole time. I wouldn’t have been able to tell his parents. They wouldn’t have helped. They were Christians who believed being gay is a sin. I hate when there are Christians that are rude since it makes it hard to like them and I know most are good people. I think that happens with all different types of groups of people. It is easy to view a group as bad when you hear someone of that group but it is only a big deal when someone does something since the majority of people are good. I like the idea that no one is completely bad but I think some people are. Some people are just bad and the sooner that is realised the better.

The bell rang for mentoring. I was thankful that it was over but being thankful didn’t last long since it meant it was now going to be science. I usually don’t mind science but at the movement we have been doing stuff on dissection and I just hate seeing an animal in such a condition. I just love animals and hate the idea of any form of cruelty towards them. I am mainly vegan but not completely as the Har;eu’s won’t allow me to go vegan. I guess it’s fair enough. It would be expensive to buy all the separate foods.

When walking to science I bumped into this girl carrying a fat stack of books. When we collided all her books plummeted to the floor. I quickly bent down and helped her pick up the pile of books. Our hands met when packing up the last book. She let out a small laugh. Her laugh was cute. She sounded like a doll and looked like one. She had golden ringlets that flowed down her back, crystal clear blue eyes, rose blush lips and cheeks, a few freckles on her nose, a dimple in her left cheek when she smiled, and a statuesque figure. She was the real life Athena. “Your hands are covered in a lot of hands.” She expressed concern. “I’m fine.’ I responded shyly. I had never had someone notice my scars. No one ever paid that much attention.

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owlmoonboi · 8 months ago

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The walls were yellow. God, I hate yellow. I could feel my stomach twisting in a knot and a lump in my throat. "You look a little green," a boy with short curly brown hair said. I nodded slightly, not properly, as I knew I was going to spew soon. "Follow me," he said and tugged me on the arm.

He led me down a hallway to the bathroom. I leaned over the cold, metal bowl. "Blah!" My stomach heaved, and vomit splashed into the sides of the bowl. He patted me on the back, helping me get it all out. I pulled a piece of toilet paper out of the rusted dispenser; it was sharp enough to cut. I wiped my mouth and got up slowly, feeling like the room was spinning. I washed my hands with squishy, pink soap, but the hand dryer didn't work, so I wiped my hands on my jeans. "Are you okay now?" he asked, his hand on my shoulder. "I think so," I mumbled shyly, but what I really wanted to say was, "I am now that I met you." He looked like a model with his blue eyes, olive skin, dark brown curly hair, heart-shaped lips, tall frame, and muscly arms.

We walked back to the room, which once had yellow walls but was now covered in leaves and flowers. Birds chirped all around. "What happened? How did the room change?" I wondered. I stood there in shock, and the boy ran to the door on the other side of the room, moving at the speed of light. The door was red and made of wood. I spun around in the room, trying to get a proper view.

As I spun, the leaves fell to the floor, and the flowers browned. I could smell smoke, and the room began to fill with golden flames. "Run to the door! We've got to go! Now!" the boy screamed. I tried to run, but my feet felt glued to the ground. I shook my legs to unstick my feet and plummeted to the floor. I tried to stand, but I wasn't strong enough. I felt my bones breaking like glass smashing. Unable to stand, I slithered across the floor, but the fire spread, trapping me in a ring of fire.

I tried to huddle into a ball, but the pain was too much. The fire consumed me, cutting through my skin. I opened my mouth to scream, but nothing came out. Tears dripped down my face like bullets against my hot skin. The world became a fiery nightmare, and I felt like I was burning alive. The pain was unbearable, and I desperately wished for someone to save me.

The next time I awoke, I found myself in an unfamiliar room. It was dimly lit by a small lamp, casting soft shadows against the white walls and a cool grey floor. The beds, like the walls, were white, each adorned with pristine white bedding. I was not alone; there were twelve other kids in the room, ranging from the youngest at six to the eldest at eighteen.

A hazy feeling hung over me, and the dream I'd had felt almost like a distant memory. I murmured to myself, "Was it all just a dream?" I hesitated to wake anyone with my pondering.

As I started to come to my senses, I heard the faint, almost imperceptible sound of someone crying. The quiet sobs, soft and melancholic, revealed the source to be a child. My stomach churned with empathy as the cries slowly grew louder. It was a young girl, sitting up in her bed. Her vibrant red hair sat neatly in a bob cut, an image I noticed was mirrored by the other girls. In contrast, the boys' heads were shaved. Curiously, my own hair was cut short, but not shaved. The sides and back were closely cropped, leaving a long, floppy fringe that brushed over my right eye. I touched my hair, my fingers feeling the short strands.

I gently moved to her bedside, and she looked up at me through teary eyes. "Are you okay?" I asked, my voice soft and reassuring. I wasn't quite sure why, but I had an urge to provide comfort. "Actually, what is your name?"

Tears clung to her rosy cheeks as she replied, "No, I'm not. I'm cold, and I miss Mummy and Daddy. I want them to tell me everything will be alright."

I nodded, understanding. "I see. I'm not a parent, but I can tell you this: just stay strong, and everything will end up alright in the end." I attempted to offer some solace. Even if these words couldn’t help her, they are words I feel I need to hear.

She smiled faintly through her tears. "My name is Amber. What's your name?"

For a moment, I was taken aback, not knowing how to answer. Then I remembered the radiant green writing on my left hand. "Seven!" I said, a mixture of curiosity and confusion in my tone.

Amber, still smiling slightly, seemed to notice my hesitation. "Seven is an unusual name. But that's your name?"

I could only nod in response.

Amber's tears had ceased, and she mustered the energy to ask, "May you please sit with me and maybe even tell me a story?"

I contemplated her request for a moment before agreeing. I took a seat at the end of her bed, ready to offer some storytelling comfort.

"Once upon a time," I began, "there was a boy named Jack who lived with his Mother on a farm."

But Amber interrupted, her voice soft but determined, "I don't want that story. Tell me a different one, please."

I sighed, feeling the weight of her young eyes upon me. "Alright," I acquiesced. "How about the story of Alice?"

"Please, go on," she whispered, settling in with her head on two pillows. Her trust and anticipation were palpable.

So, I started, "Alice ran through the woods, chasing a white rabbit in a red suit jacket. 'I'm late! I'm late! I'm late for a date!' he exclaimed as he checked his pocket watch."

Amber was clearly engrossed, hanging onto every word. I continued to narrate the tale of Alice's whimsical adventures, describing how she followed the white rabbit through a tunnel formed from tree roots, leading to a mysterious world where cakes made her grow larger and drinks made her shrink. The details flowed as the story unfolded.

As I neared the end, describing Alice's successful journey through a keyhole, I felt Amber's breathing grow slower and more rhythmic, her eyes closing in peaceful slumber. I gently pulled her blankets over her, making sure she was comfortable.

Once she was settled, I retreated to my own bed, feeling a strange sense of unity among the inhabitants of this mysterious place.

The blaring sound of a loud bell sliced through the air, yanking me from a restless slumber. "Get up, sleepyheads!" A woman's voice, grating like nails on a chalkboard, filled the room. She stomped about, violently ripping the blankets off each of us one by one. Her ash blonde hair was pulled into a loose bun, but her most striking feature was an enormous wart on her face, seemingly the size of the Earth. She was adorned in a long, dark blue dress that cascaded to her feet.

Groans of protest echoed through the room as the woman, who I presumed to be our caretaker, bellowed, "Rise and shine, it's cleaning time!" She flung open the curtains and carelessly tossed an array of cleaning supplies onto the floor, leaving them to sprawl haphazardly. After her bizarre proclamation, she exited the room, her footsteps fading as she disappeared down the corridor.

I begrudgingly pulled myself out of the thin, uncomfortable bed, wincing as the motion sent a sharp pang through my back. Sleep had been a scarce luxury here, marred by the discomfort of the bed, which felt as though it were made from a cut-in-half mattress. The idea of finding some solace in sleep was nothing but a distant dream in this place.

My mind raced with questions as I begrudgingly picked up a broom. The other inhabitants of the room reluctantly followed suit, similarly equipped with brooms and other cleaning tools. They moved around mechanically, their bodies showing the toll of restless nights.

With the broom in hand, I strolled around the room, going through the motions without any real intention of cleaning. At the far end of the room, opposite to where our uninvited guest had entered, was a solitary door, a vivid contrast in a room that was otherwise awash in muted tones. This door was blue, a striking deviation from the monotonous surroundings.

I moved closer, an unspoken curiosity compelling me to explore what lay on the other side. A nagging worry gnawed at me; what if we weren't meant to leave this place? What if there were consequences to going against our invisible captors' rules? I half-turned to ensure that the other occupants hadn't noticed my impending departure, not wanting to invite trouble.

But as I looked back, I was confronted with a shocking sight – everyone in the room had begun to melt. Panic gripped me as I stammered, "What's going on? Are you okay?" But my voice fell on deaf ears as the process continued, their forms gradually merging with the carpet until they were indistinguishable from it. My heart raced as I realized my compatriots had succumbed to some inexplicable fate.

Dreadfully aware that the next could be me, I hastily decided to push open the blue door, the last remaining tether to the reality I knew. The alternatives seemed far worse than the unknown that lay beyond.

I stepped through the door, and the world shifted once more. It was a long, seemingly endless corridor with white walls that slowly began to close in on me as I advanced, creating a sense of claustrophobia. At the far end, there was another door, not much taller than me. This door was a vibrant shade of purple, a stark contrast to the environment that had enveloped me.

I reached for the handle, my hand trembling with uncertainty, and slowly turned it, revealing a sense of weariness and trepidation. I pondered the symbolism of the door's colors, wondering if they held the key to understanding the enigma that had entrapped me thus far. The mystery that shrouded this place was ever-present, and I could not help but wonder whether any of it was real or a creation of my own imagination.

As the door creaked open, the blinding sunlight outside temporarily blinded me, and the sweltering heat hit me like a wave. My surroundings had transformed yet again, and I found myself amidst a chaotic scene. The barren, white corridor had given way to a bustling landscape filled with tents, huts, and people in disarray.

Mothers hurriedly cradled crying babies and restless young children. Volunteers moved through the area, distributing food, water, and blankets, while other refugees lined up, their eyes filled with weariness. My mind raced as I realised I was in a refugee camp.

With a sense of urgency and a desire to escape this place, I began to roam the area, searching for any sign of a door that could offer an exit. I turned to look back at the entrance I'd used, but it had vanished without a trace, leaving me feeling isolated and alone in this enigmatic realm.

Amid the cries and chaos, I heard a heart-wrenching sob, growing louder as I drew closer. It was a young boy, writhing on a blanket, undergoing a terrifying transformation into a green, monstrous figure. He cried out in fear, "No! No, don't hurt me!"

The boy was alone, seemingly in a state of trance, as he twisted and turned. My heart ached for him. I couldn't stand to witness his agony without doing something to help. I reached out, softly rubbing his back as my other hand ran through his unruly hair. I whispered soothing words, "It'll be okay. It's going to be alright." Gradually, his cries subsided, and he sat up, confusion and fear etched across his face. He finally asked, "Who are you?"

"I'm Seven," I replied, offering a reassuring smile. "I'm here to help you. Are you feeling any better now? It seemed like you were having a bad dream."

As the boy wiped his lingering tears, a remarkable transformation took place. His green, monstrous features began to recede, and his human form re-emerged. His skin lost its eerie hue, and he slowly reverted to his natural self. "I think so," he said, his voice trembling with uncertainty. "I have a lot of nightmares, and I've been here alone for so long. Everyone leaves me when I turn into a monster. I wish I could be normal."

With a newfound sense of purpose, I assured him, "I'm not going to leave you. Let's find someone who can give us some food. You must be hungry, and it's the least I can do." The boy's eyes sparkled with hope, and he nodded eagerly.

We set off together, hand in hand, my fingers gently clasped around his soft, small hand. He was small, standing at the height of my waist, and I couldn't help but feel a deep sense of responsibility for this newfound companion.

As we continued walking, my mind was still haunted by the sudden transformation of my fellow inhabitants in the room. Questions continued to swirl, and my thoughts returned to that mysterious woman who had ushered us out of our beds and into this perplexing labyrinth. I couldn't help but wonder if her influence extended beyond the rooms of our confinement.

In my quiet contemplation, I experienced a peculiar vision or daydream, like a distant memory. I saw myself walking down a sunlit street, clutching the warm, reassuring hand of a woman who felt like my mother. My younger self radiated happiness, and the world around me seemed to glow with warmth and security.

In the vision, we were on our way to a library, and I couldn't understand the muffled words the woman spoke. Yet, her touch and the warmth of her hand were enough to make me feel safe and cherished. The vision gradually faded away, leaving me with a sense of longing and nostalgia for the love and comfort I had once known.

But as the vision dissipated, I realised that I was still holding the boy's hand. My past and present, intertwined in this surreal place, had transformed me from the one who received care and protection to the one offering it. My journey had taken an unexpected turn, and the mystery of this enigmatic world continued to unravel.

Together, the boy and I pressed on, guided by the desire to escape this realm and discover the truth about the doors, the rooms, and the strange woman who controlled our fate.

A woman in a burqa, along with her children, had offered us a small piece of naan bread. It was a gesture of kindness and generosity that touched my heart, despite the lingering pain in my stomach. With a grateful smile, I passed the piece of bread to Oscar, who eagerly accepted it. It was evident that nourishment was desperately needed, particularly for a young child whose frail frame revealed the harsh reality of malnutrition.

Sitting with our newfound companions, I tried to make Oscar feel comfortable in this unfamiliar setting. He was hesitant at first, his apprehension evident in his wide eyes and timid smile. I offered him a comforting hug, hoping to convey the warmth and security he so desperately needed. His gap-toothed smile in response was a poignant reminder that even amid dire circumstances, a glimmer of innocence and hope could endure.

As the days and nights passed within the refugee camp, the bond between Oscar and me deepened. The sleepless nights spent side by side on a shared blanket, my protective presence, and the comfort I provided seemed to ease the anxiety that had gripped him. In the quiet moments of the night, I often contemplated my own past, the mysteries of my existence, and the dreams that hinted at a profound connection to a distant world.

One particular dream, vivid and inexplicable, continued to haunt my thoughts. I found myself standing at the window of a room with green walls, gazing at a dark blue sky adorned with countless twinkling stars. Among them, a solitary star shone brilliantly, like a guiding beacon. In the quiet solitude of the dream, I recognized the significance of the star—a shooting star, the bringer of wishes.

In that ephemeral realm of slumber, my wish was simple yet profound: to uncover the truth concealed by the veil of secrecy surrounding my identity. My adoptive parents' silence had only fueled my curiosity, and I longed to unravel the enigma of my origins.

Then, as if woven from the fabric of the dream itself, a door appeared—golden and mysterious. With trepidation coursing through my veins, I reached out to the doorknob, realizing that it held the key to answers I had sought for so long. I told myself that the door had a purpose, and that purpose was mine to discover.

Stepping through the golden door, I found myself in the room with yellow walls—the very room where this extraordinary journey had begun. It was a bewildering experience, the boundary between dreams and reality blurring before my eyes.

As the sun's rays gradually cast light upon our surroundings, I awoke from my contemplation. Oscar and I shared a simple breakfast of rice and sultanas, a meager reprieve from the relentless heat and fatigue that had become our constant companions. The growl of Oscar's empty stomach was a stark reminder of the harsh reality of hunger that afflicted so many children worldwide.

Our journey continued, and I gently hoisted the frail Oscar onto my back, his small body barely making a dent in my own. The harsh sun beat down on us, its intensity unrelenting. With each step, sweat dripped from my brow, but I refused to let the harsh environment penetrate the sanctuary of my thoughts.

Amid the sweltering heat, I conjured images of a different world, one cloaked in the cool serenity of snow. It was a mental refuge, a place where the scorching heat of the refugee camp held no dominion over me. I retreated into these thoughts to shield myself from the relentless demands of the journey, the burdens of the past, and the uncertainty of our destination.

With Oscar in tow, I pressed onward, propelled by an unshakeable determination to find the answers that remained just out of reach. The quest for truth, the connection between my dreams and reality, and the unwavering commitment to protect and care for Oscar had become the driving forces that propelled us forward. We were two souls navigating a world fraught with uncertainty, and we clung to the hope that, one day, our questions would be answered, and our path would lead to safety and clarity.

As we pressed on through the desolate landscape, ominous black clouds gathered overhead, turning the once-clear sky into a foreboding canvas. Suddenly, a strange green rain began to fall, and it was unlike anything I had ever experienced. The raindrops were searing hot, sinking into my skin and reopening old wounds that had yet to heal. I felt as if I were a living canvas, bearing the indelible marks of bloodshed, tears, and countless cuts.

Oscar, my small companion, cried out in agony as the green rain pelted him. His tears mixed with the strange precipitation, and I could feel his wet face and snotty nose pressed against my back. His pain was palpable, and it cut me deeply, more than the searing rain.

"It burns! Make it stop," Oscar cried, his small voice trembling with fear.

"I know, bud. I'll do my best," I reassured him. Without hesitation, I removed my shirt, using it as a makeshift shield to protect him from the burning rain. His safety was paramount to me, even though it meant enduring the pain myself.

My feet, already battered and bruised from endless walking, began to throb with exhaustion. Cuts, lumps, and blisters covered them, making each step an agonizing endeavor. I’ve never walked on grass made of pins and needles or the shattered glass a beer bottle a grimacing man who feeds off young women so the beast inside him can kill the memories of his dead wife but that’s the only words that come to mind when walking in this agony.

"Let's sit here for just a few minutes so I can rest," I suggested, realizing the need to pause briefly for respite.

Oscar obediently sat in the dirt next to me, but before I could react, I noticed his tears. His transformation had begun, and he assumed his monstrous form—green and grumpy, his little face marred by anguish. I tried to console him, to wipe away his tears, but he squirmed away from my embrace, kicking the ground in frustration.

"I'm sorry. There's nothing I can do," I panted, a lump forming in my throat. I could feel my own tears welling up, a sense of helplessness weighing on me.

"It's not fair! I want Mummy. I miss her, but she's dead. Daddy killed her because I'm a monster," Oscar cried out, his pain and sorrow echoing in the barren landscape.

I held him tightly, the two of us caught in a cycle of despair and shared anguish. But Oscar's despair soon turned to anger, and he pushed my arms away and ran off.

I scrambled to my feet, but the sudden movement left me dizzy. My nausea overwhelmed me, and I couldn't hold back a wretch. Disgusted, I wiped my mouth on my jeans, my heart pounding in my chest harder than the heavy weight on my shoulders. Loose strands of hair clung to my face, obstructing my view of Oscar.

As a monstrous form, he moved swiftly, and the realization that he could run faster than I could began to gnaw at me. Concern for his safety mounted, pushing me to chase him.

"Please stop, Oscar. I just want to help," I pleaded between labored breaths. The dizziness continued to intensify, and I feared I might faint.

He slowed down, his human form slowly reemerging. "You have to catch me," he playfully called out, and I couldn't help but groan in response, feeling the oppressive weight of exhaustion and dizziness pressing down on me.

I pursued him, determined to keep him safe, but my vision blurred, and every step felt like a monumental effort. Despite the debilitating fatigue, I pressed on, knowing that Oscar's well-being depended on my ability to reach him.

Eventually, I caught up to him, wrapping him in a warm embrace as we both struggled to catch our breath. With his small frame nestled against my chest, I began to sing a lullaby, my voice filled with a soothing tenderness.

"Butterflies fly,

Caterpillars crawl,

Lions roar,

Bunnies hop,

All these things are true like I love you,

It'll be okay,

It'll be alright,

Wipe your tears, darling,

Don't cry,

It'll be okay,

It'll be alright."

Gradually, Oscar's human form returned. "I'm tired," he admitted, his voice filled with relief.

"Lean on me. I don't mind," I assured him, offering comfort and support. As the rain began to subside, I cradled him in my arms, mindful of the fragile trust he had placed in me.

Looking out at the desolate landscape, I spotted a woman in the distance, struggling to carry her baby. The cries of her infants reached our ears, and a man approached her menacingly, brandishing a weapon.

Instinctively, I placed Oscar on the ground and rushed to intervene. "Stay here, Oscar," I whispered to my young companion before standing up and racing to the woman's aid. She was in a vulnerable position, with a baby on her front and another on her back, their cries growing louder with each passing moment.

As I approached the scene, the man's hateful words filled the air like venomous arrows. He advanced menacingly, brandishing a weapon, and his eyes were filled with anger and disdain.

"Why aren't you wearing a burqa?" he roared, his voice dripping with contempt. "You're a terrible person. You should rot in hell."

The woman, her face etched with fear and desperation, held her infants close, but her defiant spirit refused to yield to his hateful rhetoric. She cried out in protest, her words carrying the weight of a mother's fierce love. "Don't hurt my babies!"

He showed no mercy, his actions confirming his cruel intentions. With cold determination, he reached for the first baby and pulled it from the woman's arms, leaving the innocent child vulnerable to his brutality. The mother's cries and pleas for clemency reverberated through the air, but they fell on deaf ears.

It was at that moment, witnessing this heart-wrenching scene of cruelty and injustice, that I knew I had to act. Without hesitation, I intervened to protect the innocent, refusing to let such an atrocity stand.

With newfound strength and determination, I wrested the second baby from his grasp, determined to protect the innocent. The woman's tears mirrored my own as we fled from the brutal officer, her sobs of grief trailing behind us.

Our escape was fraught with uncertainty, and the officer remained in pursuit. But we ran, Oscar and I, driven by an innate desire to shield the innocent from harm. Oscar's small feet pounded the ground as we raced through unfamiliar and unforgiving terrain.

"I'm tired, and my feet hurt," Oscar complained, his voice reflecting the exhaustion that had taken hold of us.

"We have to keep running," I replied, my tone more matter-of-fact than I intended. The baby in my arms continued to cry, its tiny voice echoing our tumultuous journey.

Our destination remained unknown, and the future uncertain. With each step, the weight of responsibility grew heavier on my shoulders, and I wondered how I could protect the children in this desolate, unforgiving world. We were alone, with no supplies, no respite, and no escape. A profound sense of dread enveloped me, and I couldn't help but entertain the thought that the darkness might ultimately consume us.

Eventually, I stopped when I felt something hard beneath the dirt. I started to kick the dirt out of the way carefully so it wouldn't make the baby cough. "What's wrong?" Oscar asked, confused about what exactly I was doing. To be fair, I was also slightly confused.

"I'm trying to move the dirt as there is something solid underneath. May you please help by moving the dirt with your hands?" I responded. He nodded, and together, we began to clear the soil away, revealing an orange door beneath.

"Do you want to open the door, Oscar?" I inquired. Oscar began to twist the handle on the orange door. "It won't open," he sighed.

"Just keep twisting. I'll stomp on it to see if that will help to loosen it," I suggested. He smiled. The door started to turn yellow before glowing green. "What's happening?" Oscar queried.

"I don't know!" I exclaimed, puzzled. There was a flash of light. As the door opened, revealing a hidden passage behind, my heart raced with a mixture of excitement and trepidation. The spiral stone stairs led us down into the depths of the unknown, and with each step, it felt like we were descending into an entirely different world.

Finally, we reached the bottom, only to be met with a seemingly impenetrable brick wall. My confusion mirrored Oscar's innocent inquiry. "Where do we go? The doors have never led me to a dead end before. What to do? The door would've vanished by now."

My mind was a whirlwind of questions, searching for answers that seemed elusive. But then Mila, the baby we had saved, reached out for the wall, her tiny fingers brushing against the bricks. At first, I dismissed it, thinking it was just a child's playful gesture, but then it struck me—perhaps she knew something I didn't. Of course, I didn’t know what her name actually was, but in my head Mila had seemed right.

"It's just a wall," I murmured to her, my voice tinged with doubt. To my surprise, she giggled, her laughter a ray of hope amidst the uncertainty.

An idea formed in my mind. "Mila, you're a genius," I exclaimed. I turned to Oscar, my newfound optimism guiding us. "Oscar, help me press the different bricks in the wall. One of them will be an opening."

With determination, we started to press the bricks, one by one. I struggled to reach the top right side, given my short stature, but we persevered. Finally, the bricks shifted to the sides, creating a hidden passageway through the wall. On the other side, we found ourselves inside a grand castle.

Before us, four thrones were arranged for the royal family. The most majestic among them was a towering red throne, presumably reserved for the king. We had stumbled upon a place of great importance, and my heart raced as I wondered what awaited us within this ancient castle.

We walked down a long corridor which had white walls adorned with portraits of what seemed to be past royals. The floor was covered with red carpet that had gold-trimmed edges.

"What are you doing here? Tell me your name and your business here," a man with silver hair, dressed in a suit, demanded. He looked to be of high rank.

"I'm Seven. The kids with me are Oscar and Mila, who is a baby. I am here to clean," I responded, hoping to sound honest.

"Why, yes, we did need a new cleaner. Follow me," he said in a snobbish, somewhat posh manner.

He led us into a dark room on what seemed to be the ground level. It was a small room filled with cleaning supplies and uniforms. The uniform was a black button-up with a white collar, paired with long black pants or a skirt. I opted for the pants.

"I'll take those kids so they can be cared for while you work. You mustn't worry about them. We give all children good treatment," he assured me. I gave a faint smile but was still worried about Oscar. What would happen if he turned into a monster? What would they do? These questions echoed in my mind.

I waved Oscar and Mila goodbye, hoping that Oscar didn't think I was going to leave him just because he couldn't stay with me while I worked.

"Follow me. I'll show you where to clean first," a young woman with orange hair said.

"Ok, thanks. I'm Seven. What's your name?" I asked.

"I'm Bea. Sorry, I thought Victor told you who I am," she said, slightly surprised.

"No, he didn't even tell me his name. I don't think he particularly..." I started but didn't finish my sentence, not wanting to say anything negative about Victor in front of a stranger.

"Haha, he can be like that," Bea reassured me. She led me up red stairs with gold railings.

"This place really has a thing for red and gold," I muttered.

"Here we are," Bea said as she pushed open the big brown doors. The room had mauve walls with purple skirting boards and matching purple curtains that had a lavender print on them. In the center of the room was a four-post queen-sized bed with aqua bedding. Roses were engraved on the bed head. There was a tall white cabinet with pink butterflies on it, and on top of the cabinet sat white lace and little trinkets. The room looked like something out of a fairytale. This beautiful room a stark contrast to the life I’ve lived and any room I have ever resided in.

"I'll have to go off to do my own work as I'm needed to help decorate since a neighboring kingdom is visiting. You can clean her room and then meet me in the dining room," Bea instructed.

"Ok," I replied, feeling slightly worried as I didn't know my way around the rest of the castle. I also didn't know anyone to ask for help if I got lost, but I was sure it would be alright.

I opened the windows to let some warmth in, and some birds came flying in. "Oh, hello there," I said. The birds helped me make the princess's bed, switched the aqua bedding to orange bedding, mopped the floors, scrubbed the windows (there were twelve of them), tidied up her wardrobe (she had so many dresses), dusted her trinkets and chandelier, and wiped down the walls. I was a little scared that a crystal would fall from the chandelier, but thankfully, they all stayed in place.

After completing the cleaning, I walked down the stairs and wandered the halls, looking like a lost puppy. I noticed what looked like a crack on a stone wall. I pushed it, revealing a door with a set of winding stairs behind it. I ascended the steps, counting at least three hundred of them. At the top, I found a brown wooden door with a black metal handle hanging down.

When I touched the door handle, I saw a flash, and a voice told me, "The key is in the mouth of the gargoyle statue." I went to grab the key, but the door just opened for me, even though it had been locked. "Did I do that? Were the colored doors I opened actually locked, and I could open them?" Questions swirled in my mind, and it seemed like this entire journey so far had been one big question, tangling itself like a spider's web.

“What are you doing here? Are you here to see Thorn?” A girl in a blue cloak asked. “I just found a crack in a wall and followed the stairs. I don’t even know who that is.” “He’s a wizard. He is meeting the neighbouring kingdom’s wizard. I’m Zia, it’s nice to meet you. What’s your name?” “My name’s Seven. It’s nice to meet you too, Zia.”

I just stood there uncertain, as she looked at me with curiosity.

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owlmoonboi · 8 months ago

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It's my 1 year anniversary on Tumblr 🥳

#1 year tumblrversary #tumblr milestone

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owlmoonboi · 10 months ago

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Dear Ashley,

I am writing this letter to you for reasons that I cannot quite comprehend. Honestly, I have no idea why I am writing to you, but nevertheless, I am. I wish I knew why I’m writing to you but I don’t. Why don’t I know? Why can’t I just know?

Maybe it’s love. Is it love? Could it be love? But if it was love, I would want to be with. I would want to see you. I would want to see you undress. I would want to kiss you. I would want to give you the world. I would want to protect you at all costs. Except I feel none of these. I am certainly not meaning it against you. I do think it would be nice to see you, but I don’t feel a need to see you. I don’t feel we are connected.

Except maybe it is live and I just don’t know it yet. In fairytales it says it is live at first sight but honestly I think the princes were just horny and the princesses wanted an escape. I don’t think Romeo and Juliet knew it was live the moment they met.

My parents didn’t know it was live the moment they met. My father was a wealthy white man who was preparing to go off to Vietnam to fight in the war as he thought it was the best way to escape his past. While my mother was a black Indigenous woman fighting for equality. They didn’t know it was love at first. They never thought they were going to fall in love. Although they were both fighting. Maybe that’s what joined them together. They both sought a better life. Being rich doesn’t stop you from having an abusive father.

Maybe I am writing to you to seek you out as a friend. Not that we aren’t friends already. I just mean for you to be a real friend. At the moment we don’t even know each other properly. We don’t know each other’s dreams or aspirations. We don’t know each other’s secrets. I wish I could know more about you but I’m questioning if I would want you to know about me. I think maybe one day but at the most it might be best for me to be the quiet kid who sits at the back of English class.

I want to know the real you. I say thus but I’m not sure if anyone has a real self. We all have a million different versions of ourselves, for each person, for each situation, but there is one version we know. One version everyone keeps to themselves. I know that there are things I’ve never told anyone else. Things I’m not sure if I could ever tell others.

Maybe I am writing to you to see if you’re ok. You gave me worrying. Pondering. Scared. Confused. You have me if you want. You can trust in me.

I’m feeling so many feelings about you. So many emotions. I wish I knew why you ran out of science class crying. I wish I knew why people say you like me but you’ve never said a single word to me. Well, that’s an exaggeration. We used to be friends back in primary school.

Anyway, I wish I knew why you were being accused of sending nudes. I wish I knew why you with dating the quarterback on the football team even though you told me you’re a lesbian.

I wish I knew why I had been writing you this letter. I wish I knew why u was writing you this letter full of lies. I wish I knew why I care so much about you even though I don’t believe in love. I wish I knew the truth. I wish I knew the truth about you. I wish I knew the truth about you and all the lies in this world.

I hope you read this letter but you don’t have to.

Kindest regards

Echo

Echo took the pen away from the paper. He wouldn’t have much luck if writing more. Even if he wanted to. The pen was running out of ink. Not that he would know what else to write. He had pretty much just spilled his guts. Even if all he said was everything but nothing. H could never truly say everything.

Echo dug his hand into pocket to retrieve a lighter. He wasn’t much of a smoker. He liked the occasional smoke but that wasn’t what he was using it for this time.

He rolled up hush left sleeve. His arm a tapestry. Each cut or a scar a story of when he has felt, felt sadness, or something else, like, frustration, anger, fear, anxious, vulnerable, apprehension, broken, melancholic, or just plain depressed.

He flicked the lighter. It made that kaching noise that was all too familiar. Even though the lighter was only used in moments of distress, the sound it made when being opened brought a feeling of calmness, safety.

The fire glazed over his numb skin. Each time burning more skin. Each time painting an ever deeper red. Each time sticking more flesh. He continued to burn his skin until he decided the layer of blood that oozed over it was starting to become too crusty.

“Hhhhhhh hhh” Echo sighed. If his breath was recorded. If it was recorded it could mean so many different things. Each person who listened to it, would think something different. Would feel something different. For thus breath would be able to strike up as many words as a picture can tell. Maybe even more.

The next day Ashley wandered long, draining halls, filled with red, blue, green, and yellow lockers, but that seemed to be one of the small bits of colour left in this grey world. She stopped at her locker. She took her key from her leather jacket pocket and unlocked the door. She had shaved off her long pink hair and dyed it blue.

She was known to change her hair often but she had never shaved it down to a number one. It was making heads turn. She was always making heads turn, but this time more than usual. It surprised people to see her like this. It even surprised herself. She hadn’t planned to change her hair. It just happened. It was an impulse.

For Ashley, lots of the things she does she does on an impulse. She always did as she pleased. Her Father was often telling her to care more about her studies. To try for higher grades. She could get straight A’s if she wanted to but she wouldn’t be doing it for herself. She wouldn’t want to do that. If she did, they would be doing something for her Father, and she hates her Father. Who wouldn’t hate a man that uses his daughter as a punching bag when he gets drunk.

Her Mother was always telling her to dress differently. “Do not dress like such a dike or a slut.” Telling her she’s soon to be knocked up but she’ll never find a husband. Ashley would just laugh or smile shyly. She would never argue, or cry, or say a single word. Doing any of those things would only be pleasing her Mother. She liked to please people, but her parents. She used to try pleasing them but gave up when she came to the conclusion that her birth is the consequence of her parents not using contraception and not having an abortion as that is not whether God would want.

As Ashley grabbed her math book from her locker, a folded piece of paper met the floor. She bent to grab the paper. Some boys whistled. “You can stay like that all day.” One boy said. “Gyatt!” Another boy screamed. “Ashtray is finding her place on the floor with the rest of the trash.” Holly screeched. A bunch of girls giggled. “Shut it Holly whore.” Ashley snarled back. There was a roar of laughter that scattered across the hall like a rumor spreading.

Ashley picked up the piece of paper and unfolded it. It was the letter Echo had written. She read the letter, over and over, and over, throughout the day. No matter how hard she tried, her thoughts always came crawling back to the letter.

“Should I write a response?” Ashley thought to herself that night while lying in her bed, staring at the grains in the ceiling, like a beached up whale. “Maybe I should.” She thought.

Hesitantly she sat up, before reaching to her bedside table to grab a piece of paper and pen. Her shaky hand put the pen to the page and was soon enough writing a letter.

Dear Echo,

You wrote me a letter. I’m confused. Why did you write me a letter? Luke honestly. I know you said you don’t know why you did but I think deep down you know why you wrote it. I think I deserve the right to know why you wrote.

We used to be friends. We used to be best friends. For a moment we were each other’s worlds, but that was before high school. That was three years ago.

I used to tell me secrets and you told me yours. People said we were in love. We weren’t. I said I could never love you in a romantic way since I’m a lesbian. You told me that you could never love me because you believed you don’t have a heart. Though I think, now it seems clear you have a heart.

You are curious about my relationship with Andrew. For your information, we aren’t dating. Not for real. I just let him kiss me in public so people believe he is straight. I don’t care what people think. Well I to a little but I do this to protect him. His father hates gays. He’s gone to extremes of saying “If I had a gay son I would shoot him. I wouldn’t mind too much if my daughter was a lesbian, but lesbians kissing is hot.” It doesn’t sound like a complete lie. He owns a gun that he uses for hunting.

You want to know why I ran out of science class. I can tell you. I hope reading this answer makes you happy. I was crying because Lacey said to me “I wish I could be as curvy as you but instead I look like this piece of chicken.” She knows I’ve struggled with my weight in the past. I’m a recovering bulimic. It was a secret I had trusted her with.

So you also wish to know why people say I like you and why people accuse me of sending nudes. Well, people say that I like almost everyone at school. For a while, people were saying I liked Mrs Wilson, just because I was a bitch towards her.

So, onto the nudes, it’s not an accusation. It’s not a lie. There is one thing people at school are saying that actually isn’t just a rumor. I did send nudes. I sent nudes to plenty of old men on Snapchat but it’s not because I’m a slut. I can tell you the reason but you won’t completely understand. You probably wouldn’t even believe me. Most people wouldn’t believe me.

I sent the nudes because my parents need money. We are barely getting by with rent. Both my parents are addicts. It’s just that my dad is addicted to alcohol while my mum is addicted to crack. That’s how she keeps do skinny. Like me, she also has an eating disorder. I guess it’s genetic.

Each fortnight, I secretly been giving the money I make from selling nudes, to the landlord so we don’t get evicted. For if we get evicted, we have nowhere to go. Both my Mum’s parents are dead. My dad’s dad is still alive but their relationship is strained.

If we get evicted, there’ll be no one to take care of my parents. Most likely I’ll end up in a foster home or group home. But no one wants to take care of me. No one wants to live with a teenager. Especially not a female. It’s too expensive with the pink tax.

If my father was on the streets he would probably end up getting into a street fight or maybe even ending up in jail because he wouldn’t have me to be his punching bag.

You can’t tell anyone any of the stuff I’ve written in this letter. If you do my life will be ruined.

Sincerely

Ashley

The next day, Echo was pleasantly surprised to find the letter Ashley had written in his locker.

He read it throughout the day. He kept reading it. Reading it secretly. Hoping no one would find out but they all changed in math class.

“What are you reading?” Brad asked. “Nothing.” Echo replied. “You can tell me.” Brad persisted. “It’s a letter from Ashley.” “You mean Ashley as in Ashley Green.” “Yes”

Lacey heard them speaking. Lacey told Holly, and soon enough almost the whole school knew about the letter.

“Is it true you wrote a letter to Echo?” Missy asked. “That freak. Yuck. I hate him. He probably wrote it, so while reading it he wanked off. He’s that kind of pathetic.” “You’re right.” Missy laughed a little. “I wish he could just drop dead.” Ashley said, staring in his direction. “Yeah.” Missy and Chloe said in sync.

Echo stormed off. His anger palpable. With the letter Ashley wrote in his hand he stormed straight to the principal’s office.

“I need to speak to you.” Echo said coldly while putting the letter right in front of the principal’s face. “May I please see this note?” “It’s actually a letter.” Echo passed the piece of paper.

The principal slowly read over the paper. Having read over parts to process it properly. “This looks very concerning. Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Echo. I’ll have to speak to Ashley as soon as possible.” “Thank you” Echo said with a malicious smile. “Shut the door when you leave, please.”

In art Ashley was given a note to see the principal by a soft spoken year seven student who had been stuck with office duty. Ashley anxiously screwed the note between her hands while strolling to the office.

Ashley walked into the principal’s room. “Take a seat, Ashley.” “Why did you want me? I’ve done nothing wrong.” “I’m concerned about a letter you wrote.” He slid the letter across the table. “I didn’t write this. Whoever told you about this is lying. This isn’t my writing.” “Ashley, please be honest. If any of this is true you have to tell me. You need help.” “Shut the fuck up! I don’t need help!” Ashley got up and slammed the door behind her. The door fell off its hinges.

“Echo!” Ashley continuously screamed while wandering the halls until she bumped into Brad. “Echo’s gone off to the senior bathroom.

When Ashley came stomping into the senior boys bathroom she found Echo lying in a pool of blood next to a folded piece of paper. She unfolded the piece of paper and began to read.

Dear Ashley,

I never told you how I wished for you to be happy. I heard you wished for me to drop. I hope both our wishes have come true now. I know yours has.

I’ll love you forever

Echo

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