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Before I shut the door, I see a glint of something in the corner of the shed, probably some sort of old gardening tool.
Back when I had a television, I had forgotten how much I used to love to read.
The rain is coming down hard. The raindrops have coalesced so that it almost looks like someone is pouring buckets of water over my house.
It seems unlikely they wouldn’t be concerned about her whereabouts during a violent storm.
Did she murder her mother?!
I don’t think I’m going to be needing that tonight.
🙂↔️🙂↔️ could be a mistake.
she continues eating with gusto.
Totally a “man’s” dinner, but it was delicious. He even coaxed a bit of conversation out of me, although I managed to skirt any serious questions.
The usage of the word skirt 🤔
In less than five years, I’ll be eighteen years old, and she won’t be able to put me in the closet ever again.
13 and some change 🤔
What do people like that do anyway? They probably just sit around discussing books they like.” “And watch documentaries,” I add. “In other languages.” “With subtitles.”
Funny
The woman in these drawings is me.
stole it from my arts and crafts class last year. The weird thing is that the teacher didn’t even notice it was gone. Or maybe she noticed, but she was scared she’d get in trouble if she reported it missing. Anyway, by the next morning, the knife was safely tucked away in my room. And now I stuff it into the pocket of my hoodie.
Cry. Cry, stupid.
This should not be this funny.
“Elizabeth Casey.”
There are days when I feel regret over what I did, but that vanishes in an instant—I should have done it sooner.
canned hamburger
He scratches at his ear, a hangdog expression on his face.
“He knew all about you when he moved in.” What? “What do you mean?” I say slowly.
“I don’t think that’s possible, Ella.”
“You called me Ella,” I spit at him. “Why?”
“Yep, this is what I love to see, Casey. You teaching my niece to gamble over the breakfast table. Wholesome.”
Oh my God. I can’t believe this. Yet it all makes a terrible sort of sense.
“Hey, Anton,” I say. Anton’s blanket instruction has always been that if anyone asked about him, I should tell them he’s dead. He doesn’t want anyone to know he’s spending his life in prison—he insists on it.
