White-Washed Lies
The house always lye void of human interaction as years passed from that one specific moment in which Claudia Samuals had grotesquely taken her own life out of pure resentment toward her soon-to-be ex-husband. The walls are said to be coated in crusted over blood from her brutal taking, and that the smell of decay still lingers within the air circulating around the very room her body had been found all those years ago. The windows have long since been boarded in hopes to keep lurkers astray, but somehow teenagers still find various ways to sneak within the empty house for dares and initiations. The doors have been nailed shut, and the old, lead paint is chipping off walls as the wallpaper is also pealing away from the glue used to hold it up. The lawns are overgrown and full of weeds and animals, and the brick drive has weeds sprouting through cracks whilst pushing bricks up and out of their way. Nothing about this house screams 'Welcome,' so why is it that after all these years of vacancy I see a family living within its confines; everything neat and tidy?
Am I really going that crazy?
I've been told time and time again that I need psychiatric help; that I should be held behind white-wash walls. They tell me such things because they don't understand how beautifully morbid my mind has grown throughout years of abuse. I enjoy my life to its fullest, and I quite love the way I've turned out; it's others who don't understand, nor care to understand how it feels to be within my mind (not that I'd ever want to share my precious thoughts with nonbelievers; haters). I am my own person; I will--without a doubt--admit to that, but I will never admit to the accusations of insanity sent my way. I know, for fact, I am just as sane as the next person. Everyone, after all, is entitled to their own opinion. Mine, just so happen, to be of things others don't particularly see as beautiful as they'd rather see the darkness in the light. I, myself, would rather see the light in dark; I'd rather see positives in death and life than live in denial about something we all know will happen regardless of our feelings. We all die, sooner or later. It will happen.
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Rated PG13 for now, but will be changed as needed.
I own all characters, therefore I hold full copyright over this story.
Am I really going that crazy?
I've been told time and time again that I need psychiatric help; that I should be held behind white-wash walls. They tell me such things because they don't understand how beautifully morbid my mind has grown throughout years of abuse. I enjoy my life to its fullest, and I quite love the way I've turned out; it's others who don't understand, nor care to understand how it feels to be within my mind (not that I'd ever want to share my precious thoughts with nonbelievers; haters). I am my own person; I will--without a doubt--admit to that, but I will never admit to the accusations of insanity sent my way. I know, for fact, I am just as sane as the next person. Everyone, after all, is entitled to their own opinion. Mine, just so happen, to be of things others don't particularly see as beautiful as they'd rather see the darkness in the light. I, myself, would rather see the light in dark; I'd rather see positives in death and life than live in denial about something we all know will happen regardless of our feelings. We all die, sooner or later. It will happen.
--
Rated PG13 for now, but will be changed as needed.
I own all characters, therefore I hold full copyright over this story.