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Every waking moment was a nightmare— eating at the dinner table across from my perfect parents and little sister pretending that my mind wasn't decaying was driving me closer and closer to insanity, if that was even possible.
I am an imperfection in this town, and it didn't look like the people took well to anything less than perfect.
Now I knew better than to let the words slip from my lips because they would use them against me. They would tell me I'm overthinking or overtired. I'm always too much of something to be anything at all.
But that wasn't the case, I was sure of it. Or perhaps I have been consumed by my thoughts of insanity but at last, I am the only one thinking in this town. The only person with a living mind.
I am the only one person that is sane. Everyone is trying to convince me otherwise. Even my mother, my sister, my father, and my... Bucky.
One thing I'm not good at is losing. My mind feels like it's being dissected and only certain memories are being fused together and I'm not entirely sure why.
I am not sure of anything.
But then again, maybe everyone is right and I really am going insane. Maybe I'm creating these moments in my head to escape this place because deep down I know something isn't right.
Something isn't right. The people. This town. But I won't accept my fate.
After dinner I ended up in my father's home office located at the back of my home. I was alone and a victim to my impending thoughts but now they didn't seem as scary as they once did— I wasn't afraid of them anymore.
My back rested on the leather chair as my gaze traveled to the wall of books covering the entire office. My father had begun his collection when my mother and him had just gotten married. He told me he proposed to her with a book because he couldn't afford a ring at the time. To show her his love he never let a bookstore go untouched. Every time we passed the library or a neighbor giving away old goods he stopped by to collect books for my mother. She blushed every time.
She loved reading. She used to read to me every night. But I can't remember what book she used to read to me or what night light shined in my bedroom. I only remembered the feeling. It was another one of my forgotten memories.
They are starting to add up.
But now I felt inclined to look through the bookshelf before me that covered the entire wall of my father's office. I stood from my chair, feet hitting the hardwood floor and walked towards the shelf. I dragged my forefinger down the spine of a green hardback book and pulled it out. The title was difficult to read, it had been rubbed off from years of wear and tear.
