Dahlia Wellburg hates her misery as much as she loves it. She sees herself as a stone: ordinary and unwanted. Yet, they know her to be a rose: soft, but with thorns.
. . .
Mature Content. Check the tags.
"If you hold me without hurting me. You'll be the first who ever did."
- Lana Del Rey . . .
Dahlia
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There was a little house in the town - a little house that held almost every good memory I had. Many people thought Emilia was the better sister, especially after the not-going-to-college thing happened. But there was one person from my family who didn't change the way they looked at me.
He was older than my father by about five years. He was fond of books. He liked reading them, writing them, making them, selling them, collecting them, donating them... everything he did was wrapped around his love for the written word.
Because the written words the only thing I can hear, he once signed to me, grinning at me from his porch as I walked back to my car - the car which used to be his. It's not just written, Dahlia, it exists in every medium imaginable.
He was a man with very deep words.
Or....he used to be.
I sat down on the white porch of the house, looking at my Maserati, wondering what his reaction would be to the recent events.
Evan left you? I told you that boy had rocks for brains!
Elliot is...Elliots? That is what I call a twist, but I would have kept it a secret for like half of the book - just for the suspense.
Did they give you just brownies and earrings? I know for a fact that brother of mine has a shit ton of money!
It's okay, Dahlia. You know how Emilia is. Just don't talk to her. Don't give in when she comes to apologize this time.
It was weird how I could think of what his reaction would be, while I doubted I could do that for anyone else.
I looked at the closed white door. I couldn't bring myself to walk inside. I hadn't been able to since he died. I guess I was hoping that when I walked in, I'd find him sitting by his bay window. He'd see me, scramble to find something to use as a bookmark, finally decide on regretfully folding the corner of the page, and then hug me as he told me he loved me above everyone else.
To be on the top of someone's list...that feeling had been addicting.
I knew if I found no one near that bay window...I'd lose the overburdened rope tied around all parts of me, holding me together.
I went about my day, and then my week, and then my month with no interactions with the Elliots of the Kozlov twins. I wasn't surprised. Disappointed? Perhaps. I wanted answers. Something to make sense of the mess created in my mind by them. But, perhaps, this was for the best. I was taken out of this before I fell way too much for them.
Four journals appeared for me in my mailbox one random Sunday. I looked at the note on it.
A few pages are torn in all of them because we wrote some things.
