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When Marie's hopes and dreams get torn away from her, she leaves everything in hopes of starting a new life that can distract her from the perfect one that was ripped from her hands.

Submitted:Nov 27, 2012    Reads: 12    Comments: 0    Likes: 1   

So there I lay. Stone cold and faded to the black. My world as numb and the pain engulfed me. As hard as i tried --hoping the pain would flow with the tears-- I couldn't cry. My eyes were as dry as bones. Whitewashed, ancient bones. I was closing in. I was near my last resort. I played every heavy chorus I could recall over and over and over until my fingers looked slaughtered. My knuckles were torn and dotted with blood blisters from taking my rage out on the wall. My hand was cramped from writing and over a hundred failed lyric attempts surrounded me. It was already 3 a.m. and I was alone. Music pulsed from the speakers; I allowed myself to drift into the intro. Four minutes and twenty-seven seconds later, it hit me again. Sure, it wasn't very long before the next song started, turning the page to a new chapter in my living hell, but it was there. And it pierced me like a spear.

Oh, how it hurt. I was so sick of things being quiet. I couldn't help myself. I had used up all of my stress reliefs. Used them until they bled. My poor fingers. My poor guitar. Anyhow, I threw myself onto the couch and screamed into the blankets. After my over-dramatic fit, I just lie there, with my face in the blankets. Then I realized those freaking blankets smelled like her, my life, my everything, my every breath. She was mine... She was mine...
I tore myself from the couch and took the blanket and all the wadded papers and stuffed them into a trash bag. It was a tight fit, but it worked. I trudged outside in my shorts and sweater, threw the bag into the fire pit, and lit the match. I didn't even stay to watch it burn.I grabbed my guitar case, my iPod and any other objects I couldn't live without and got in my Ford. Our picture hung in the corner of my dashboard. I tore it down and shred it to pieces. I found one of the few pages of notebook paper and wrote a note to my mom. Solemnly, I strode back up to my house, the smell of charred blanket lingering in the air and posted the paper to the door. I went back to my junky old Ford and drove down the dark, desolate, empty road to....


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