It was 11:11 when I first started to write this, so I hope it counts.
I don’t really know how to do this formally, seeing as I’ve only made small, quick wishes before, so I guess I will write it like a letter?
Dear Whatever-Controls- Wishes-for-Eleven-Eleven,
I don’t want anything for myself. Contrary to what you might have just read, I really don’t.
What I want to see is for men to treat women like women, even if they happen to be “one of the guys” just do simple gestures for them.
When they have a girlfriend, I want to see that girl cherished as much as my best friend does his girlfriend, she is terribly lucky to have him and I wish every girl finds someone like him for themselves.
I want couples who fight to look at what they have and decide if it’s worth it to carry on, and if they can’t think of life without that person because they make it infinitely better, then I wish for them to realize it and stay strong through the hardships.
But most of all,
I wish for everyone to have what I don’t,
Someone who loves them enough to see how screwed up they are and love them for it.
She closed her notebook and set it to the side, placing the mechanical pencil on the cover. Demytrii was always more relaxed when she came to this park to write, especially if they involved her rants and pouring her feelings into graphite.
Looking up at the stars, Demy reveled in her life at the moment. A cold wind blew past her and chilled her skin into gooseflesh.
Life had never been easy for her, always being the last one to be picked for anything. Always thought of as one of the boys, and always, ALWAYS, thought of as weird.
I guess depression would just form naturally from the environment she lived in. Always second best, never prettier than any girl, never truly loved.
Demy's gaze dropped from the sky to her notebook. A tatty old thing she bought for herself when she realized it was big enough to not only use as a storyboard, but also to cut a few pages to hide things in.
Petite hands deftly grabbed the book and flipped to the last pages, where a small craft knife lay nestled among a bed of words.
Her nails scraped lightly over the blue handle, it looked like a pen, and that made her slightly more assured in her decision.
Demytrii Vaynity Zeklos had made this difficult choice long ago, but the last week had finally pushed her to preparing for this night.
I suppose you would want to know what happened over the week to result in such a grisly and untimely choice and the possible death of Demy.
Well it all started on Monday . . .