I am not crazy, and yet I sit here, on my white bed, in my white paded room, all because my friend was murdered and I whitnessed it. I don't know how my life will continue, but I can tell you one thing, my feeling about my future?
I sit on the carpeted floor, I can feel it scratching my bare legs, crossed beneath me. My laptop is sitting on my lap as I write this to you. I'm home alone, all alone. I'm scared. My dog gets up and runs to the door. What if there's someone there? I run to the door, but am scared to look out the windows. What if they see me and break in? I put my back against the cool metal door, and put my ear against it, trying to listen. The wind whips around outside, screwing up my hearing. I think I hear a car pull up. My heart starts racing, my palms are sweaty as I lean against the door, trying to listen better. Then I realize it's just the wreath, scratching the door.
I go back to writing to you, sitting now with my dog beside me, my legs stretched out in front of me. Every creak of the floor, every leaf hitting the door, makes me jump. I close the curtains to my back door, and close all the doors to the main floor. You know I've always been paranoid. I've never been very good at being alone. I sit back down, hoping maybe some music would reasure me, but all it does is make me scared I'll miss the sound of someone unlocking the front door.
The silence is worse though, so I turn on the TV. Low though. I sit here, in a panic, worried that tonight may be my last night, this might be my last breath. We never really know when life will end. I just hope, I'll get to see you again. Then a noise breaks the almost silence. I jump up.
The phone is ringing.