Unwritten Pages

A girl with brown hair sits in her room, scribbling furiously in a notebook. The blue pen leaks ink all over the paper.

Tears pour down her cheeks. Her clothes are dirty and ragged. Posters around her room are ripped and torn up. The white walls are scribbled with permanent black ink. Not just any scribbles. Things that say: Hatred and the way the world ends had found their way to those once pure white walls.

Innocence is gone—one of the quotes that are scribbled into the wall in messy handwriting. There are black smears all over the wall as if someone's hand had accidentally smeared the words before they had time to dry.

Hatred and jealousy reigns—another one of the quotes.

Why her? Why her?

Tears, tears, TEARS, we hear you. We speak.

The deafening silence.

Sweet low whispers, betraying intentions.

Betraying intentions.

BETRAYING INTENTIONS.

'Do not swear by the moon, the inconstant moon.'

'This is the way the world ends, not with a bang, but a whimper.'

'The angels have their wicked schemes.'

Make me sleep and never wake, for that is much better than what lies in the world.

The cruel world.

Oblivion is much better.

Do not regret. Do not cry.

Fear and hurt is an emotion for the weak.

Sorrow begets sorrow.

Fear.

His blue eyes gaze up at yours questioningly, not knowing the damage he has done.

Damage.

It's only a state of mind.

Only a state of mind...

The hatred overwhelms her.

In the hands of the gun and blade, it is not her choice.

It is escape.

Escape.

Freedom.

Redemption.

Finally.

'What shall we call a rose? By any other name would smell as sweet...'

A rose, a rose...

What thorns they have! What thorns!

If rose be love, every time you reach out for it, you will be hurt beyond belief...

'I am not the kind of girl that boys fall in love with...'

Finally, her hand stops moving and she looks slowly up at the stained walls. The once pure walls.

She closes the book she was writing in and stares at the walls. Tears are still pouring from her eyes. As if a waterfall. She shuts them tightly, those brown eyes disappearing for a while before she opens them again. The brown eyes take in the view.

She opens her book again and writes one more thing in it. Then she shuts it and places it on her bed. She slips the blue pen—now capped, in the spine.

Her bed is messy. A teddy bear lies sprawled on the ground. Her navy blue blankets are all over the floor. Her bed sheet is ripped. The only thing that lies on the bed is a pillow.

A single pillow in shape of a dolphin. She takes a look at her pillow and clench her hand into tight fist and grabs the bed post, looking as if she is about to fall over.

She tears her eyes away and looks at the ways again. She then picks up the black sharpie she has left on a drawer. Then a blank piece of lined paper from the floor. It is crumpled and a tab bit ripped, but she pays no attention.

She thinks for a while, before writing. A few minutes of writing passes and she places the paper softly on the bed, as if afraid it would rip itself up.

She glances at the shut door. No one is calling for her. No one is calling. No one. No one. No one.

No one.

Tears press against her eyes as she wipes them away furiously. She then takes the black sharpie which is still in her hand and presses the tip against a blank space on the wall.

She freezes for a while, as if contemplating about what she should do. Then she starts to write.

For the world does not know. Does not know the terrors that hide behind.

No truths.

For winter is leaving.

Forever.

Leaving no regrets. No regrets.

Maybe one regret.

Andrew.

-Winterlyn Evaline Lawly

That is the end. She drops the marker and goes to her drawer and opens the last drawer.

Beneath all those notebooks, she digs until she has reached it. The cold metal. Cold, unforgiving metal.

No regrets.

No regrets.

Andrew.