¿¿¿¿¿Chapter 1????? Draft 1 - April 20, 2014 to ___________
You need to clean up your act. You are corrupted. On your knees, you gather contents of the pool from her chest and wipe it vertically along your face, just to experience the warm iron run up your nostrils. You whisper your first verbal words to her into her ear: "I'm sorry."
Haven't you learned by now how to wake up early by now? It is one in the afternoon and your eyes can't seem to pull themselves apart. You just can't seem to get out of your plush bed; your dark blue blanket is impossible to resist having that repetitive flicking of every little feather against your large dirty body. Once you swing yourself up, you collapse back onto your pillow like it's a strong magnet. It takes you about five attempts to actually get the motivation you have to start another day of your sad, uninteresting life. You don't really have motivation, you just can't kill yourself; it would hurt, and you think that there might be some hope for you.
Walking is hard for you, because you are heavy, as your feet feel it with every step. The carpet you walk in sounds like dry sand. Every step is another area with a faint scent of smoke, a scent that's difficult to get rid of. That's why you have nothing except this shabby townhouse to live the rest of your life in. Of course it's not really going to last a lifetime, but it's certainly going to feel like it. It's going to be a long pilgrimage of no excitement, but a exponential growth of impatience. Down the stairs you go with that drowsy and disappointed look upon your face. One glance to the right and your eyes hurt from that white light traveling from the sun to your window. This apartment, where you are forced to have your stay after the accident, is sure to bring excitement. Walls all over are pale as your skin, and full of cracks in their assigned places, next to the darkest corners which are stuck to particles of dirt and dust that left their hosts years before you came around.
This apartment is older than you are; to you, this is a long time, as sixteen years is already too long for you to handle your the desperate expectation of the growing hoard of stress to end. Your life is long and boring as you are young. Somebody must have sympathy for you, but little do you know that many do, yet you constantly shove others' love for you aside and realize how much it isn't the same if those thoughts don't come from you. Somebody pity you, you poor, poor thing. Someone pity the one who cares less about love from others and only cares about the desire for self-love. That's awfully selfish of you. Face it, you are the dumbest, ugliest, foulest person, and you deserve to be, but you aren't sure why. It seems like the worst gift to ever be given.
The useless individual you are, drag yourself to the kitchen to fill yourself up because it's one of the few emotional impediments you have. You tend to have a minor obsession with beverages; the soft and smooth feeling of freezing cold liquid traveling through your body relaxes you. Taking out your bottle of soda, you set it down on the dining room table and sit to observe it. Thousands of air bubbles stick to the side of the bottle, but one by one, those air bubbles find their way to the surface because they can't take the oppression towards the large field of carbonated liquid. Isn't that how you feel? Do you feel like there is a distinct difference between you and your surrounding people? Do you feel like an air bubble? Of course you do. That's why you are observing that soda bottle; you have no friends or anybody to explore the world with. You explore a soda bottle. Drink your soda, it's why you went to the kitchen in the first place.
You take your journey backwards, and head back into your room only to lay back in bed to think. It's Saturday, for you have nothing to do except lay in bed to think. As you bounce onto your mattress and the dirt upon it splashes, your thoughts unleash into direct mental words.