Sold

I wasn't far down the deserted road when I saw two lights coming from behind me.

"Lillith, get in." I shook my head. I didn't want to get in the car, I wanted to walk. It clears my head, and I really wanted my notebook. I had an idea just buzzing to be let out. "Come on, please?" I shook my head again. I wrote poetry. Since I didn't have music to express myself, I threw myself into that. I've always liked poetry, always written it. But, it wasn't until after my mom's death that I really got into it. "Please." Matt tried again.

"I've got paper and a pen." Justan stated, his voice sounding the same as at the auction. I pushed that aside and stopped, the sound of crunching gravel mimicking my move, and silencing.

I turned around and walked quickly to the car, getting in the backseat. Justan handed me a clipboard with tons of paper on it, and an ink pen.

"How did you-" Matt stopped, and when I glanced up, Justan was shaking his head.

I looked back down at the paper and wrote what had been dancing in my head the whole time I was walking. It wasn't exactly a poem, but it was pretty good. I had to re-write it a few times before it came out, and actually sounded like I'd thought it.

"Please save my soul. Release it from the deepest depths of hell. In which it is promised to parish for all eternity." I read under my breath.

"What was that?" Justan asked, looking in the review mirror. I hadn't even noticed the car was turned around and driving toward the house, until just then.

I shook my head and looked back down at the paper. I thought it was good. Until I read it over again. I was just about to ball it up when I remembered the promise I made to my mom.

She had found my notebook, and was reading through it. When I walked into the room, she smiled at me and said, "Promise not to throw this away. It's really good Sweetie. Write all your work in here, and keep it. Promise?" I just nodded at her, and that was the first time she showed me her notebook. The one that she had been writing songs down in since she was 8 years old, just like me with my poems. I was 10 at the time, and only been writing for two, maybe three, years, I barely had anything either.

Thinking of that time brought tears to my eyes, and before I knew it, they were cascading down my cheeks. When I looked up again, I saw Justan looking at me, again, in the review mirror. I sighed and looked down at the paper, blinking the blurriness away, and doodling the rest of the way "home".

As soon as the car was stopped, I got out and made my way up to Justan's room. I walked over to the closet, slid the door open, and plopped down onto my butt. I crossed my legs, sat the clipboard and pen down, then reached for one of my bags. I pulled out the little, battered, red and white composition notebook and jotted my little thing down on the back page of one of my recent poems. For some reason, I've been trying to save up space in the book, and have been using the backs of pages.

"That's really good." I jumped at the sound of Justan's voice, slamming my book shut in the process. "One of the best mini-poems you've written." He mumbled and I turned to look up at him.

"How did you know I wrote poems?" His faced paled slightly and he just stared at me for a few minutes.

"Your dad told me." He finally answered. But, I knew that was a lie, my dad never knew I wrote poetry.

"Oh, okay." I mumbled, turning back around and putting all my things away, neatly as they were before.

I'll find out what you're hiding from me sooner or later. I thought as Justan walked back down the stairs.