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Alessia's Writing > Creation

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message 1: by alessia (last edited Oct 30, 2014 03:01AM) (new)

alessia (classick)
sᴛᴏʀɪᴇs. ᴡʀɪᴛɪɴɢs. ᴘᴏᴇᴍs.

I'll post all my completed works here, so feel free to read and air your thoughts at the Dear Alessia topic! :D



message 2: by alessia (new)

alessia (classick)
ɢʀᴇʏ. ɪɴsᴘɪʀᴇᴅ ʙʏ ᴛʜᴇ ɢᴀᴍᴇ ɢʀᴇʏ

In this world of color,
there shall be no grey.
And as I watch her smile,
I fade away.



message 3: by alessia (last edited Oct 28, 2014 11:39PM) (new)

alessia (classick)
ᴛʜᴇ sᴛᴏʀʏ ᴏғ ᴊᴀᴄᴋ. ɪɴsᴘɪʀᴇᴅ ʙʏ ᴛʜᴇ ɢᴀᴍᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴍᴘᴀɴʏ ᴏғ ᴍʏsᴇʟғ

The story of Jack is a lonely one.

Jack is a twelve year old boy who lives in the hospital. He looks like an average kid, the kind you'd walk past and not give a second thought about. If you even gave him a thought in the first place. But Jack is no ordinary kid. He's been living in this Home ever since he was eight, ever since the night he murdered his sister and his parents disowned him. He's never seen anyone else but me, Jennifer, Darcey and Louis. We're the only four people in his life that are still alive.

But every day, when I enter his room and shake his hand and tell him my name, he gives me a surprised look, as if he's never met me before. He remembers everything else--from the day he was born to the day he killed his sister--perfectly well, but the days and years after that are just a blur. Maybe it's because he's been isolated from the world for so long his mind just wants to cling on to the days where he still laughs and still talks. Maybe he doesn't want to know what's happening to him.

I would have let him out, let him meet the other kids in the Home. Let him play with them for a while, but his mental state is too severe, too "messed up" to guarantee the other kids' safety. So Jack stays in his grey world alone, until the number of his "bad days" go down. But every day is a "bad day" for him. Every day he can't help but do something wrong. And I don't even know why he can't help it. He won't tell me. He can't.

He blames it on the absence of Gwyn, his sister. And he doesn't know, right now, that he's the cause of it. He doesn't know that because of him, his sister was found buried in the garden, holding a wilted flower in her hands, as cold as the makeshift gravestone he'd planted over the cardboard box he'd shoved her into.

They still haven't found out what he did to kill her, because he can't remember, or he won't tell us. But they know, it was him.

So everyday, I ask him about his day and he stammers out an answer. Then I ask him about his story again. He'll tell me, brighter this time, all about how he grew up and everything. His story ends the day before Gwyn was found dead. His story ends when he says, "Gwyn smiles, because she's happy, and I smile too". I'll tell him its a good story, and then I'll leave. His story fits what his parents had said the day they sent him here. It's the truth.

So I wonder sometimes, what made him kill Gwyn? What made him shatter his beautiful, colorful life? What made him fall into this grey world of his?

But as much as I wonder, this is my final report on Jack. His condition is going from bad to worse, and there's no sign, no sign at all, that he'd ever get better. There's no sign at all that one day he'll be safe and one day he can be released into the world. There's no sign at all that the color will ever return to his world.

So, I'm sorry, Jack.

Your lonely story ends tomorrow.


The shrink leaves, and suddenly I don't even have a person to tell my story to anymore.



message 4: by alessia (last edited Oct 28, 2014 11:41PM) (new)

alessia (classick)
2 ᴀᴍ. ɪɴsᴘɪʀᴇᴅ ʙʏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴏᴇᴍ 2:36 ᴀᴍ

It's 2:36 AM and I'm still lying awake, silent and still, because 2 AM is not for the lovers who sleep in each other's loving arms, dreaming of sunny days and smiling as the stars shine outside the window. 2 AM is for the poets and writers who can't sleep because their minds are alive and running wild with the words for someone who's not there to accept them. 2 AM is for the alcoholics drinking themselves into amnesia and the smokers who sit and watch their sorrows drift up in smoke, trying so hard to forget someone who left without a second thought. 2 AM is for the brokenhearted with tear-stained faces and glassy eyes, the ones who lose track of what is in front of them as they desperately cling on to the past, trying to re-live the memories.

2 AM is for the lonely, the ones who are so painfully in love with the loved, but are not loved in return.



message 5: by alessia (new)

alessia (classick)
ʀᴀɴ.

There is this kid in our class who we all used to laugh at. We used to call him Mommy's Boy, because he used to run home every day after the bus dropped him off at his street for months before. It wasn't the typical jog back home, the kind you get when it's been a rough day and all you want to do is fall asleep in your cozy bed. He ran like there was a pack of wolves chasing after him. Frantic, panicked, and most of all, scared. But scared of what? The bus wasn't going to eat him. So what was he running from? Us? The big bad bullies? We had no idea, but we laughed at him anyway because the way he ran and the fact that there was nothing to be scared of was funny. Ridiculous.

And we really had no idea. We didn't know that Mommy's Boy was the elder brother of a sixteen-year-old girl. We didn't know the girl, because she didn't attend our school. We didn't know that she returned home everyday sobbing and wailing. We didn't know what her classmates called her. We didn't know how ugly she thought she was. We didn't know of what she did to herself with the same old razor every night. We didn't know that all she wanted to do was vanish without a trace. We didn't know that Mommy's Boy wasn't scared of us, or the bus, or anything that could harm him. We didn't know that he was actually afraid of his sister killing herself when he was out in school. We didn't know that was why he ran home every day, making sure he wouldn't give her an extra second to kill herself.

So we were a little sad when Mommy's Boy missed school one day. Where had our daily entertainment gone? Was he so scared of us that he didn't even dare to come? Or was he just sick? That day, the class was full of laughing and rumors about why he didn't come. Mommy's Boy was the best student in our class, he would never miss a lesson or even come a second late. That's why our teacher decided to tell us. Tell us about Mommy's Boy's depressed little sister. After hearing her explanation of why he ran home every day, we stopped laughing. We stopped talking. And we just sat there in silence for a while. Because all of us knew what happened to Mommy's Boy that day. And we were truly sad, this time for him.

And we're still sad, you know. Up till now, whenever we look at "Mommy's Boy" hopping off the bus, we feel sorry for what we did and what happened. We stopped laughing. We stopped doing a lot of things. And "Mommy's Boy" stopped running.



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