Death by Pink_Chapter 21_glass_For My Dream
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Death by Pink
June, 1965Jenny wanted pink-flavored cupcakes - pink being her favorite color - for her sixth birthday. I thought about explaining to her that pink wasn’t a flavor, but I was too exhausted for that conversation, filled with the never ending, “But why, mommy?” question. I figured vanilla cupcakes with strawberry buttercream would taste like pink to a six-year-old, so that’s what I made.That year, Roger decided he wanted to pull out all of the stops for his little princess. As he explained it, “you only turn six once”, so expenses be damned. I wanted to argue that you only ever turn any age one ...
Chapter 21
The aroma of fresh library books always creeped me out. I never understood how pages could smell so strong, and I always felt so out of place at any library, yet here I was. Instead of spending my Thursday afternoon at the skate park or getting high by the reservoir, I was here at my school library searching aimlessly for a book on Mental Illnesses because I decided to try and complete my psychology assignment last minute. It’s truly on brand for me. I let my eyes scan through the shelves under the “Psychology” section, not seeing anything interesting or colorful enough to grab my attention. I...
glass
Dear mother, I'm not certain what has come over me. I musnt tell you so i've written this letter. But I am unable to put this one dream to a halt. I had a nightmare about him once more. I can't sleep. You are the only person to whom I can write. I don’t want to trouble you. What do The measly pencil was discarded from his sweaty palm and kissed the rug with a light thud. Ronnie wasn’t a disturbed boy for he was the one with a troubled life, troubled past fore say that still torments him. A former no child can control, one you can merely endure. How could an incident that occurred when he was ...
For My Dream
What was it like to step outside? Omisha pressed her cheek against the cool window sill, just as she did for the past twenty-years when the clock struck twelve, staring through her faint yet pale reflection out into the black. Was it what they called the night? Where were the stars? The moon? Not that she ever saw them. She only ever read about them in a book. Air seeped through the gaps, cold and chilly as it caressed her tender flesh. Omisha pulled back the sleeves of her white dress, exposing the numerous scars all over her arm. From cuts to incisions to needle-holes as she liked to call th...www.onedoor.cc