pages of your powerful book. And your words are powerful. Trust when I say, I am thinking of you, at this very moment, carrying your words and thoughts with me—like a talisman against the dark.
~ ~ ~
Truman blinked, felt the wetness. His mouth still hung open—he wasn’t sure if it was the shock of the wordy revelations, or that he was actually crying. He hadn’t cried since he was what…twelve?
He squinted. He couldn’t see the page anymore. It was too dark.
“Oh my gosh, it’s too dark. Ram is going to go ballistic.”
He tore off the bridge, heading through the rows.
He looked down at the journal.
He was torn. Ram was already going to be so ticked—he’d likely ignore him for days. He’d have carried out most of the nightly rituals without him.
“So dead.”
He reached the corn’s mouth, and stopped to stare at the orphanage’s wraparound porch, and back to the journal.
“He’s already furious. What’s five more minutes?”
He darted into the barn, and to the pile of junk stacked at the back beside the hay bales.
He rooted around, till he finally found it. “Yes.”
A dirty, plastic container, with a lid.
He grabbed a pen from the miscellaneous charity pile, and cracked open the journal. He hastily scribbled a message, and jammed the lid back on.
He darted to the barn-door, back out into the corn, toward the bridge.
This was one time his speed was actually coming in handy.
* * *
Chapter 6
Who are you? Where are you? Your words…well, I could’ve written them myself. I am so very sorry about your parents. But they obviously taught you well—your love for your brother shines in every word. I, too, am listening. What could I do—to help you? What is your name?
~ ~ ~
I’m very frightened, writer. There is something wicked happening in our town. People are being accused, and hanged. And—well, not only am I different on the inside, I am different on the outside. My eyes—are unmatched. People have taunted me for as long as I can recall. Today—I heard their whispers as I passed by. So many names for my brother and I.
~ ~ ~
Reader, hanged, really? Are you serious? What matters, is who you are. And by your words, it’s evident—you are a pure, pure soul. One undeserving of all this unkindness. I—I never knew my mother. She left me, at an orphanage. Truth be told…I’ve never known a home. So, although your home is lost—keep it close to your heart—to carry you through—when these others ridicule you.
~ ~ ~
Writer, I have not heard such kind words, for so many years. I hope, good sir, you find your home. Everyone does have one. But sometimes, it’s not within four walls. But within your heart.
...I feel as if I live in my head. In my own dream world. Never confessing what I really feel to anyone. I feel I’m on a dangerous edge. That I can no longer contain my thoughts.
~ ~ ~
…I live in my thoughts too. No one I know…thinks like me. Sees the world as I do.
Reader. I must meet you. I have not dated anyone…in years. I never seem capable of small talk. How do I start a conversation? Hi. I am a complete hot mess? We’ve already shared the deep dark recesses inside…I feel I must meet you. Please.
~ ~ ~
Writer. I don’t know if that would be proper. But I must admit—I want to. I find myself thinking of your words all day long. I cannot focus, and find myself wishing. Wishing too much, for too many impossible things. All of which concern you. A man I have never laid eyes on.
~ ~ ~
Reader (what is your name!) nothing is impossible. Well, some things are…but one must hope. Hope is at times, all we have. And as to convention—I have lived my whole life on society’s fringes. Convention is for the weak.
~ ~ ~
…her blood…was all over my hands. I still see it there—in my dreams I scream and scream, but it won’t wash off. The stain is permanent.
~ ~ ~
…the second orphanage was bad.
~ ~ ~
Tell me. I’m listening.
~ ~
~ ~ ~
Truman blinked, felt the wetness. His mouth still hung open—he wasn’t sure if it was the shock of the wordy revelations, or that he was actually crying. He hadn’t cried since he was what…twelve?
He squinted. He couldn’t see the page anymore. It was too dark.
“Oh my gosh, it’s too dark. Ram is going to go ballistic.”
He tore off the bridge, heading through the rows.
He looked down at the journal.
He was torn. Ram was already going to be so ticked—he’d likely ignore him for days. He’d have carried out most of the nightly rituals without him.
“So dead.”
He reached the corn’s mouth, and stopped to stare at the orphanage’s wraparound porch, and back to the journal.
“He’s already furious. What’s five more minutes?”
He darted into the barn, and to the pile of junk stacked at the back beside the hay bales.
He rooted around, till he finally found it. “Yes.”
A dirty, plastic container, with a lid.
He grabbed a pen from the miscellaneous charity pile, and cracked open the journal. He hastily scribbled a message, and jammed the lid back on.
He darted to the barn-door, back out into the corn, toward the bridge.
This was one time his speed was actually coming in handy.
* * *
Chapter 6
Who are you? Where are you? Your words…well, I could’ve written them myself. I am so very sorry about your parents. But they obviously taught you well—your love for your brother shines in every word. I, too, am listening. What could I do—to help you? What is your name?
~ ~ ~
I’m very frightened, writer. There is something wicked happening in our town. People are being accused, and hanged. And—well, not only am I different on the inside, I am different on the outside. My eyes—are unmatched. People have taunted me for as long as I can recall. Today—I heard their whispers as I passed by. So many names for my brother and I.
~ ~ ~
Reader, hanged, really? Are you serious? What matters, is who you are. And by your words, it’s evident—you are a pure, pure soul. One undeserving of all this unkindness. I—I never knew my mother. She left me, at an orphanage. Truth be told…I’ve never known a home. So, although your home is lost—keep it close to your heart—to carry you through—when these others ridicule you.
~ ~ ~
Writer, I have not heard such kind words, for so many years. I hope, good sir, you find your home. Everyone does have one. But sometimes, it’s not within four walls. But within your heart.
...I feel as if I live in my head. In my own dream world. Never confessing what I really feel to anyone. I feel I’m on a dangerous edge. That I can no longer contain my thoughts.
~ ~ ~
…I live in my thoughts too. No one I know…thinks like me. Sees the world as I do.
Reader. I must meet you. I have not dated anyone…in years. I never seem capable of small talk. How do I start a conversation? Hi. I am a complete hot mess? We’ve already shared the deep dark recesses inside…I feel I must meet you. Please.
~ ~ ~
Writer. I don’t know if that would be proper. But I must admit—I want to. I find myself thinking of your words all day long. I cannot focus, and find myself wishing. Wishing too much, for too many impossible things. All of which concern you. A man I have never laid eyes on.
~ ~ ~
Reader (what is your name!) nothing is impossible. Well, some things are…but one must hope. Hope is at times, all we have. And as to convention—I have lived my whole life on society’s fringes. Convention is for the weak.
~ ~ ~
…her blood…was all over my hands. I still see it there—in my dreams I scream and scream, but it won’t wash off. The stain is permanent.
~ ~ ~
…the second orphanage was bad.
~ ~ ~
Tell me. I’m listening.
~ ~
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