this is the turning point

Message to Readers

okay but like i dont know i did this in 15 mins

an evening tempest

May 1, 2019


By the gardens, beneath the tempest, through the woods, past the silence, underneath the laburnum, sits me and Milo. Our hair is drenched and Milo’s paws are soggy like porridge. I watch as each drop falls into his furry coat, down the follicle, lying the grassy bed. We lie silently, and I hold a chapter of my book in the corners of my palms. I stole it from Them. I watch as the raindrops mould itself into letters and syllables of pages I no longer understood. Milo’s skin shivers against mine, and my toes caress his frozen physique.

To any onlooker, we must have looked Mad. I didn’t care. After all, I am eight years old, and I know better than Them. An evening stroll amongst my friends was always my onyx. Sometimes strangers may ask us where my parents were. For that I have no answer. They only ask in the evenings, when They can dominate me. I hear them say I’m Mad, whilst their darkened eyes, hollow their way through me. They don’t scare me. After all, I’d rather be Mad but agile, than filthy and wizen.

I remember when my mother told her friends about me. She told them that little, frilly girls shouldn’t be reading in graveyards. I laugh about it sometimes. “Ha, To think that she cares!” I snicker. I glance my eyes over at him, but he continues making that expressionless face like a lifeless shadow.
They’re always watching though, Their merciless eyeballs judge every ink stain and marking of our bodies. I sometimes imagine what would happen if They approach me. If they didn’t stare at me from a distance away. Would mother come running? Would Milo’s cries betoken of his tarnished anger? Perhaps I am wrong, this rain fogs my memory, and cloudens my judgment.

The book in my hands, is now indistinguishable. Milo is fading, he is turning into a grotesque shadow, of pencil bearings and markings. His face, smudged. My mother, forgotten. What is happening to my hollow body? My eyes however remain stagnant. They curse this land, this paper. If I run, where will I go? Am I forced to seek refuge behind these bodies or accept my eventual defeat? I am – years old! Don't I have more to live for? 

As my hair dances with the evening rain, I watch my being turn into a lifeless phantom.


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  • May 1, 2019 - 2:40am (Now Viewing)

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1 Comment
  • Araw


    over 1 year ago