The silent twist of fate is most cruel, for I will bleed raw in your arms.
Rosie knows she's destined to, how to say it - bite the dust before she turns twenty five. Every night, the same dream. And every morning? The same horror she seems to be li...
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Dear Love of mine,
I wasn't ever the cunning type, but people change under pressure, right? There's an old (and maybe Russian) saying that goes 'the same boiling water that softens the potato will harden the egg.' I guess in this situation I was the egg, cracking my shell and discovering the darkest parts of me I didn't know existed. Because in a place like that, survival becomes a need, not a 'maybe'.
One night in mid 2006, I formed a plan. A plan that seemed hopeless at first, but the more I listened to Dan's advice, the more it started to make sense.
I screamed. I screamed and screamed, my lungs and throat dry and raw. The orderlies came running, and there I was, shaking the iron bars whilst thrashing around. It felt good to finally let out the pent up frustration, and the best part of my plan wasn't even in action yet. When the first orderly came in, turning me around, I lifted my hand along with the sharpened fork in my hand.
Later, I heard, that I'd successfully rendered her blind in one eye. At lunch the next day, instead of metal forks, we were given plastic ones. And a bonus – the females of the asylum accepted me into their clique with witchy smiles. I felt accomplished, having something finally go the way I wanted it to.
It was just two and a half weeks later when the next world-dominating catastrophe happened. It ruined me. It made me become just a body, just a shell of myself. I hate him. Hate him forever. No amount of words could describe the hatred I have. None.
It started with creepy smiles that lasted way too long. His gaze lingered a bit too low, like he was hoping to see something. It progressed into forced conversations and unwanted touches. His hand on my waist. His hand on my back, way too low. His hand on my thigh. His hand on my neck.
I hate him. Hate him, hate him, hate him, hate him, hate him. I wish he were dead.
He entered my nightmares, and now I had two things to be afraid of. Him, and my fate. What did I ever do to deserve this? What if I had been born into a normal family, where if someone was plagued by nightmares, the parents would give their child medications or something to knock them out at night. Ha, I could only wish.
(Note to Rosie: THIS IS GETTING WAY TOO DARK! EXPLAIN WITH LESS DETAIL IF POSSIBLE)
