Julia

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

Chapter 2 (v.1) - Chapter 1

Submitted: April 22, 2013

Reads: 44

Comments: 5

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Submitted: April 22, 2013

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- Chapter 1 -

Every day I wake I'm greeted by a small peach diary. A large heart spreads across its cover engulfing it into a frenzy of love. Smaller hearts sprinkles its back and the thin bind that holds the book together is gold. Inside of the book is Julia. I was once convinced that the book belonged to a spirit. Well, in reality, it was, I wasn't the one writing passed its peach covers.

I wasn't the one with the bubbly hand writing. The messages seem to pertain to me. With every entries the bubbly letters combine to create a day, a day that I have not lived. Written by Julia. Yesterday, Julia went shopping and bought a pink scarf.

A pink scarf which sits in a white bag on the ground at my feet, a white Burberry bag. I pull it from the thin paper film and I rub its soft material. My hands glide over the pink wool slowly. I could not stand pink! It made me feel too, happy.

It was so strange that a color could make me feel this way. It was strange that my mind would blossom into colors when I felt so sad. Pink seemed to mask my emotions. It made my heart ache. I drop it back into the bag sliding it underneath the wooden stool. I look to my watch looking to see the time. I'd waken at seven.

 My arms pull out to stretch and I walk to my kitchen to look to my calendar. I'd been a day behind. Wednesday was shoved into my head. It'd been replaced with a Thursday. I trudge to bathroom slowly scratching the back of my head to find a tender area on the back of my head.

I step into my bathroom to see a blood drenched towel in my sink. A blood lined hand clasps my mirror slapping onto my disgusted reflection. I pull it from the sink placing it into the trash can to my side pulling the small plastic liner from the trash can. Why the hell was this here? Was I going crazy?

 For so long, I’d needed a reason to need someone. In fact, I need someone to need me. But, I find my mind wrapped in a drenched clothe of insanity. I step from the bathroom throwing the plastic liner into the trashcan. If I could clock out if life I would. It would be a lot better than actually having to be here all of the time. I have nothing to occupy my day with. I wouldn't mind stepping into someone else's shoes every once in a while.

To feel something, is the one thing I'd like. Changing into my dark clothes pulls on another emotion, emptiness. My heart clenches itself in anger. I couldn't even conclude why I was so upset. I pull to my countertop and I find my phone book, skimming quickly to find Mary Callow. She was a therapist. No other information other than her name number and address. I call to hear her soft voice find me.

"Hello, Mary speaking." She says softly.

 "Hey, my name is Dot Gentry." I tell her. "I actually wanted to schedule a couple of appointments." I tell her pulling my elbow onto the counter to hold my head. My fingers bob with the cord slowly stretching it and pulling it. She clears her throat. I continue with the cord.

How would every day, at 2pm be?" She asks. I pull the cord to the calendar to see the bubbly writing coating its pages, nothing for two.

 "I'll be there." I tell her slamming the phone back to the receiver. I pull my hair up to feel chunks of hair clumped together. Had I fallen from my bed in the night? I wonder back to the bathroom pulling the medicine cabinet open.

My hands grab the brush and I shut the mirror back to the wall to see my gloomy face. So many shadows find the creases in my visage. I look to my clock to see that its 7:15, I let my hand fall to the sink looking into my own eyes. Nothing magical about it.

Looking into someone else’s eyes tells stories, mine scream for help. What kind of story must that been for a sane passerbyer? The brush finds the clump of hair letting me pull through it. My scalp pulls roughly as I brush.  Small red flakes fall to the sink.

The brush pulls through the red clump making me wince with every pull. Every motion I make makes me cringe. Finally, the clump is gone replaced with a red stain. Sometimes I wake up with random scars and bruises and I can only wonder where they come to. Maybe at night, I walk in my sleep? Maybe someone sneaks into my apartment. Maybe I do it to myself? And with every conclusion I find in my thick mind, there is no thought of fear, if so, maybe I'll die peacefully in my dream without even remembering anything.


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