Status: Lost this in the Mibba crash, and just got back to posting it. Comments=Updates! (:
Unforgotten
Chapter One
August 21, 2006
I'm Aubrey Kirstein. I stay at Atlanta Psychiatric Hospital. I'm fifteen years old.
I scribbled the words down, as I had to do every day when I wrote in my journal. The doctors here told me that I need to remember it, so that I don't believe I'm somewhere else. I was diagnosed with PTSD when I first arrived here, and they want me keeping tracking of who I am, where I am, and everything else.
Writing the same words over and over didn't help me, at all. The flashbacks and nightmares I had were almost unbearable. I woke up screaming almost every other night. I was either watching bodies fall from the sky, or being broken by my grandparents. Those nights were most certainly not forgotten. They were always with me, as a constant reminder.
“Aubrey, you need to keep this journal. If you won't speak, you need to at least write about it.”
My psychologist told me this, the day I arrived. I was puzzled at why he wanted me to write my autobiography, basically. I was forced to write a haunting account of my life, and remember every scene of it, and write every detail. It definitely didn't help with the whole fear concept, and it kept me stuck in those days.
I was forced to remember those days. They wouldn't possibly let me forget. Even if they told me I could forget, the memories would always be there with me. Every time I had a flashback, I would write about it, in this college-ruled black marble notebook, that had my name written in bubbly letters on the front. The pages were wrinkled, and some destroyed, from when I would cry, and the tears would saturate the empty pages.
That's where I went to to escape. An old, boring, destroyed composition book. Not a shoulder to cry on. Not someone to hold me close, to tell me everything was all a bad memory, and make me feel safe in every way. There wasn't anybody here to do that for me. I could only write on these dirty pages.
These dirty pages now hold a story. They hold haunting entries, that tell every detail of my life. Every day I spent, starving, being beaten senseless, no matter how much I cried. The day I saw my parents fall from the sky, with thousands of other bodies. Every day is filled with something haunting.
Something I can't escape.
Something unforgotten.
I'm Aubrey Kirstein. I stay at Atlanta Psychiatric Hospital. I'm fifteen years old.
I scribbled the words down, as I had to do every day when I wrote in my journal. The doctors here told me that I need to remember it, so that I don't believe I'm somewhere else. I was diagnosed with PTSD when I first arrived here, and they want me keeping tracking of who I am, where I am, and everything else.
Writing the same words over and over didn't help me, at all. The flashbacks and nightmares I had were almost unbearable. I woke up screaming almost every other night. I was either watching bodies fall from the sky, or being broken by my grandparents. Those nights were most certainly not forgotten. They were always with me, as a constant reminder.
“Aubrey, you need to keep this journal. If you won't speak, you need to at least write about it.”
My psychologist told me this, the day I arrived. I was puzzled at why he wanted me to write my autobiography, basically. I was forced to write a haunting account of my life, and remember every scene of it, and write every detail. It definitely didn't help with the whole fear concept, and it kept me stuck in those days.
I was forced to remember those days. They wouldn't possibly let me forget. Even if they told me I could forget, the memories would always be there with me. Every time I had a flashback, I would write about it, in this college-ruled black marble notebook, that had my name written in bubbly letters on the front. The pages were wrinkled, and some destroyed, from when I would cry, and the tears would saturate the empty pages.
That's where I went to to escape. An old, boring, destroyed composition book. Not a shoulder to cry on. Not someone to hold me close, to tell me everything was all a bad memory, and make me feel safe in every way. There wasn't anybody here to do that for me. I could only write on these dirty pages.
These dirty pages now hold a story. They hold haunting entries, that tell every detail of my life. Every day I spent, starving, being beaten senseless, no matter how much I cried. The day I saw my parents fall from the sky, with thousands of other bodies. Every day is filled with something haunting.
Something I can't escape.
Something unforgotten.