Spilling Ink

I had a teacher once that told me I shouldnt think so much when I was writing.

It began as any other story might, in a place not so very far away, in a house not so desolate after all. Perhaps you can even think of it as your house. Picture your door and the steps that lead up to it. Imagine, for but a fleeting moment, that it is you standing beneath the framework, gazing in upon all that once was. All that has been lost.

As for me, it was my house, my steps and my door. And within that door awaited a world so perilous, so horrifying, it was beyond me how I managed to pull myself through each day. Looking back, I relive the agony that was inflicted upon me there. I believe that, given enough time to concentrate, I could still hear the whispered words that had so easily slipped into my dreams. My nightmares.

I had a teacher once that told that I shouldnt think so much when I was writing. I'd always been told I was brilliant, in more ways than one. I was the golden girl of sorts, the one who everyone wanted to be friends with for the mere purpose of being able to drop my name. Middle school was a world of terrible things, in which we'd all begun to realize out potential, and we were all beginning to shape into the people we would inevitably become.

For as long as I could remember, writing had been my only escape. Yes, my life was blissful, and I embraced every minute of it. But I tired of the same routine, the constant game of dress-up. For but a few moments I longed to remove the mask, and on the paper before me, I could be anyone I wanted to be. As a child, all my fantasies revolved around a princess who cried desperately for love.

Reaching into my teens, I began to realize that the princess reflected in my story had wormed her way into my heart. I was pleading, begging for affection in any possible way I could get it. My parents had deemed me old enough to take care of myself, and so I was permitted immeasurable amounts of freedom.

My world began to change, then. The glow of perfection was fading away as I came upon the age where I finally began to understand things. Popularity was a myth, and everyone I considered a friend was nothing more than an actor in a poorly directed fable.

I had a teacher once that told me I shouldnt think so much when I was writing. As the last of my friends began to slip away, as I let them go because they werent real friends anyway, I began to encounter a new sort of crowd. They were the types that had cigarettes to offer me, who stole booze from their parents and drank it down by the lake on saturday nights. They darkened their hair and colored their eyes with black powder and liner. They welcomed me with open arms. Another one of the flawless succumbing to their tendencies.

Like too many other tragic stories, I abandoned all hope as the doors in my life closed slowly, creaking as they did. And I realized I'd gone from being one type of cliche to another, and the spark that had fueled my writing burned out and left me in darkness.

That night, I was standing in the doorway after just returning home. I was staring out into the charred sky, at the tangle of stars that seemed ever so far away through the haze that had taken hold of my head. And I came to my final realization:

I didnt know the ending.

The End

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