tonight. About how I’m different—too different to stay with them. They already have 3 foster children—all average. 3 girls. I’m the first boy. I’ve tried not talking, to pretend to be normal. I fixed their computer. Instead of being grateful—they stared at me like the freak that I am. I watch her hold the little ones. I’ve never had a mother hold me. Never tell me everything will be alright—even if it’s a lie.
~ ~ ~
Tears cut through the grime on my face. “Never to know a mother’s love. That be dreadful.”
When the memory of that love is the only reason I rise in the morning. And I have John. Who’s difficult, a constant worry—but who’s my flesh and blood. Alone. I thought I was alone. But this writer—he is truly alone. My eyes dart back to the page.
~ ~ ~
If I can just survive two more years…I can become an emancipated minor. Get grants and go to college. And I’ll be alone, again. But free.
~ ~ ~
“Free.”
The word cuts. The impossibility of it. I will never be free.
My heart aches for this boy, man…what is he? Where is he? So many words I do not understand?
My heart’s been chopped into sections, reassembled, and sewn back together. But it’ll never beat properly; out of time and disorderly.
That is precisely what his words say to me.
Far off, a voice calls, “Verity? Where are you?”
Mistress Putnam.
Fear, and a longing I have no right to, fill me in equal measure.
I open my pack which contains John’s tutoring utensils.
I hastily pull out the ink and bite my lip and touch the quill to the parchment and cringe—praying the Dark Man does not appear.
* * *
6:30 p.m.
“I will be back,” Truman called over his shoulder, already two steps into the corn.
“Where are you going?” Ram’s clipped tone echoed behind him.
“What are you, my wife? I forgot to do something. I will be right back. Ten minutes, tops.”
Truman picked up his speed, angling in and out of the rows. He used to run track in high school. He didn’t have a choice. The coach saw him sprint once…and that was all it took. The man was relentless.
He was fast. Still was.
The bridge arrived in no time. He felt better when he ran. His mind cleared and uncluttered of all but his breathing.
He let his breath exhale in relief. The journal was still there—and it hadn’t rained. He looked up at the brooding sky.
Yet.
He sprinted to the top, swiping it up. Something caught his eye. A corner was turned down. He never did that—the book was so old it couldn’t take the abuse. It had survived a journey from Scotland to the States, and five foster homes.
He opened the page. His eyes widened and he cocked his head, disbelieving.
“What the…?”
He collapsed to the bridge, legs crossed.
He turned the pages, faster and faster, shaking his head.
His finger followed along the loopy handwriting, page after page of it. Someone else’s words…written in his journal. Someone had written in his journal.
~ ~ ~
It’s as if I’m living in a tale my dear mother told me as a child, before bed. Finding this book. Writing my fears into it—perhaps they will leave my head, now. Dear writer—I understand alone. My dear family…was murdered.
~ ~ ~
A tear must’ve streaked the ink, as the next few lines were blurry, unreadable. This made him anxious.
What did they bloody say? What is this?
He glanced up, half expecting to see one of the high school boys guffawing in the corn. But no-one. Dead calm.
He quickly flipped the page.
~ ~ ~
I have a brother with me still. I understand alone. The worst for me, is the time between awake and asleep. Where I have no control—and I don’t know what is real. I feel death looking for me, then. Trying to convince me to come along, after all, my parents await.
So, dear writer, I’m listening. I know these words to be bold, and unconventional—to speak so plainly to someone I know not.
But it’s as if I may confess my heart here—in the
~ ~ ~
Tears cut through the grime on my face. “Never to know a mother’s love. That be dreadful.”
When the memory of that love is the only reason I rise in the morning. And I have John. Who’s difficult, a constant worry—but who’s my flesh and blood. Alone. I thought I was alone. But this writer—he is truly alone. My eyes dart back to the page.
~ ~ ~
If I can just survive two more years…I can become an emancipated minor. Get grants and go to college. And I’ll be alone, again. But free.
~ ~ ~
“Free.”
The word cuts. The impossibility of it. I will never be free.
My heart aches for this boy, man…what is he? Where is he? So many words I do not understand?
My heart’s been chopped into sections, reassembled, and sewn back together. But it’ll never beat properly; out of time and disorderly.
That is precisely what his words say to me.
Far off, a voice calls, “Verity? Where are you?”
Mistress Putnam.
Fear, and a longing I have no right to, fill me in equal measure.
I open my pack which contains John’s tutoring utensils.
I hastily pull out the ink and bite my lip and touch the quill to the parchment and cringe—praying the Dark Man does not appear.
* * *
6:30 p.m.
“I will be back,” Truman called over his shoulder, already two steps into the corn.
“Where are you going?” Ram’s clipped tone echoed behind him.
“What are you, my wife? I forgot to do something. I will be right back. Ten minutes, tops.”
Truman picked up his speed, angling in and out of the rows. He used to run track in high school. He didn’t have a choice. The coach saw him sprint once…and that was all it took. The man was relentless.
He was fast. Still was.
The bridge arrived in no time. He felt better when he ran. His mind cleared and uncluttered of all but his breathing.
He let his breath exhale in relief. The journal was still there—and it hadn’t rained. He looked up at the brooding sky.
Yet.
He sprinted to the top, swiping it up. Something caught his eye. A corner was turned down. He never did that—the book was so old it couldn’t take the abuse. It had survived a journey from Scotland to the States, and five foster homes.
He opened the page. His eyes widened and he cocked his head, disbelieving.
“What the…?”
He collapsed to the bridge, legs crossed.
He turned the pages, faster and faster, shaking his head.
His finger followed along the loopy handwriting, page after page of it. Someone else’s words…written in his journal. Someone had written in his journal.
~ ~ ~
It’s as if I’m living in a tale my dear mother told me as a child, before bed. Finding this book. Writing my fears into it—perhaps they will leave my head, now. Dear writer—I understand alone. My dear family…was murdered.
~ ~ ~
A tear must’ve streaked the ink, as the next few lines were blurry, unreadable. This made him anxious.
What did they bloody say? What is this?
He glanced up, half expecting to see one of the high school boys guffawing in the corn. But no-one. Dead calm.
He quickly flipped the page.
~ ~ ~
I have a brother with me still. I understand alone. The worst for me, is the time between awake and asleep. Where I have no control—and I don’t know what is real. I feel death looking for me, then. Trying to convince me to come along, after all, my parents await.
So, dear writer, I’m listening. I know these words to be bold, and unconventional—to speak so plainly to someone I know not.
But it’s as if I may confess my heart here—in the
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