;Written in Ink; {Jimmeh}

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I'm lonely.

~~

Bringing my knees to my chest, I hold my pencil tightly, clutching the tiny book in my hands. The air is thin, and the only ounce of light comes from the dim flashlight that illuminates the words before me.

[/i]It is only at these wee hours of the morning, between two and five AM when the sun still has yet to rise,[/i] that I feel comfortable pouring my thoughts onto these empty, waiting pages. My closet has become a source of refuge, a place where I can hide my fear for a few moments and let the words slip from my fingers. [/i]

Yet today, I have no drastic secrets to share with my only confidant. I have nothing. [/i]Skimming through the pages of my diary, I reread the stories of a girl who spent her life fighting her fear, still fighting.[/i] Repositioning the pencil and once again finding the page, I continue.

~~

Mother says I've been getting more and more distant. She says it's good to be quiet, but then she asks why I never want to talk to her. To be honest, I don't really know who to talk to anymore, Diary. I wish I could talk to my mother. I wish I could truthfully say that she is there for me. I wish I could talk to Fabian, too. But these are all people who have given me their love, when really, they had withdrawn all care for me long ago. If they really did love me, they would have given me the truth long ago.

What is love, then? I always thought it was the sort of thing when you give yourself to someone else. You give them everything you have left. That's what parents give to their children, and that's what I gave to Fabian, at a very basic level. Yet, if that's the case, then why do people sometimes have to lie to the ones they love? To protect them? Is that even love?

~~

I pause, leaning my head back against the closet wall and looking up at the blank ceiling, waiting for the right words.[/i]

~~

Mother asked me what I love, and I didn't know what to say. I like storybooks because they give me hope that someday, maybe I'll be in one. I like the dictionary, too, because it's the only pure piece of truth I have left. But I don't really love these things. I love what's beyond them.

I love all of the things beyond this house, beyond this world my parents have built for me. I love my fears, if I could only conquer them. Someday, when I'm out of here, I will. I'll stand outside in the middle of a thunderstorm, I'll own a dog, I'll throw a birthday party, I'll swim, I'll set a fire, I'll fall in love, I'll tell my mother about the stack of newspapers sitting right next to me, in the very corner of my closet, and most of all, I'll write in pen for the first time.

I'll write in pen forever, so that the whole world can see the words so diligently crafted. Only cowards like me write in pencil; only cowards like me ever have to erase their thoughts in fear that someone might find them.

This bucket list only grows longer and more daunting as time passes. I'm not ready for any of these things yet, and who ever said I ever would be? Maybe I'll be stuck in this house full of empty lies and false promises for the rest of my life. I can't imagine living on my own in the huge world that I so desperately want to face, yet so unprepared: so very unprepared.

Aylin and Logan both seem prepared for the rest of their lives, but when will I catch up to them? They've seemingly found their strengths and their interests and their paths of travel--all ways to cope with the constant lies--yet I still feel like an ignorant child, waiting to find out what's beyond this neighborhood, this street, this house.

I think I'm brave, Diary. The doctor used to tell me I was, when my mother took me in to get vaccine shots. I was afraid, but once the first one was done, it was okay after that. It didn't scare me anymore. So maybe that's what I have to do--get past that first stage of hesitancy in facing my fears, and then it'll be easier from there. Someday. Maybe.

I just hope that someday will come a little sooner. Then again, I never did anything for hope, so what's it going to do for me?

~~

I close my diary and clutch it to my chest for a few moments as I stare at the stack of newspapers next to me. Then, I turn off the flashlight and open and close the closet door quietly, entering my room. Attempting to navigate my way through the darkness, I make my way over to my bed, diary still in hand.[/i]

In the process I manage to trip over a pile of my own books and things, landing on the floor with a loud thud as books topple over. My leg stings and I can tell it's at least been scraped, but my eyes haven't adjusted to the darkness yet. I can't see.[/i] Desperately hoping that I hadn't woken my parents up, knowing that I'd be doomed if they saw the things I wrote in my diary--I'd be doomed if they even knew I had a diary--I sit in the silent darkness for a couple of moments, listening, waiting.[/i]

I hear something, from somewhere down the hallway, and I quickly scurry to my bed, [/i]pulling myself under the covers as I used to do when I was a child, pretending to be asleep. And then nothing. No more sounds.[/i] Realizing I'd left my most prized possession in the middle of the room, I carefully get out of bed once more, and pick up my diary. However, before putting it back where it belongs beneath my bed, I silently open the door to the hallway, curiously taking a peek, just to make sure that no one else is awake. [/i]
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