midnight thoughts

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic

i feel stuck. Will the voices ever go away?

Submitted: July 14, 2018

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Submitted: July 14, 2018



Midnight thoughts

  As my head hits my soft, cotton pillow I begin to wonder. Is it worth it? Are the sleepless nights, and shoulder watching endless days. I long for a moment of peace, but the voices are too loud. The shrieking of the high pitch voices over power my quiet, whispering thoughts. Will I ever have a moment of piece?
7pm. My mother and brother, arguing about useless things .The sky turns black, as the day ends. My father returns. Saviour? As his tall shadow enters our ‘home’, silence. The silence that covers the house, is deadlier and even louder than the shrieking and shouting. I pull my covers over my head,

“No, no, leave me.”

My demons have come, or are they already here?

9:30pm. I open the shower and watch the water slowly poor down, getting lost in the drain, never to be found again. As I step my feet in, the water covers me, everything goes blank. The silence again. I hate the silence. It so loud I feel like screaming. I try, but nothing happens. Nothing but silence, which gets louder by the second.

12am. Best part of the night, well day I geuss. The first glimpse of how your day will go. I have a theory, a theory that the first thought of the day is a sense, a warning even of how the day will follow.  Tonight mine was harsh. Harsher than most nights, which lately worries me because the thoughts keep getting darker, and louder.

1:43am. Still up. Screaming, again.

“Why the f***ck are you still up?!”

“Leave me alone.”

Door slams. Loudly.

I pull the sheets over my head and burry my face deep in my bed sheets. My dog creeps up and hides with me. We lay still, for moments, until, silence. That silence again. Its indescribable.

Morning. The sun, shining through my window, glistening into my room. What will I do today? My brother. Sleeping. Deep sleep. What could he be dreaming about? As I walk down the stairs, I admire the tall bookcase, covered with books. Hundreds of books. Are they all read? Or are they waiting to tell their stories? I wonder, if people were books, would you be able to tell their story by looking at their cover. Does the cover tell the story, or simply portray the story they want to be, but not tell.

My story. My cover seems innocent, sweet, shy, maybe even confident, but when you open the pages it gets way more complicated.  The walls seem nicely painted, but inside the walls it’s a mess…

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