Charlie. My Charlie; shes here with me. She was trapped in nothing but an oxygen concealed box: which is were i assume she had been for the past 6 months. Her tía, she put her in there, for what reason? What she never supposed to be seen again? Did she want her own niece dead? Jen, she didn't appear the most mentally stable either. She looked as if she were on the verge of snapping, but who am I to blame her, endless debilitating loss can turn the kindest people into the maddest of men. Jen. Oh jen. I don't know how I'm going to break it to Charlie, I don't think she can handle another loss. Her crys and screams for help peirce my mind with a pinging sensation of guilt. Her body lay there, like a bird sleeping in snow; and as you may know: birds don't sleep in snow. The image of her body, her stomach wide open, her walls, plastered in paintings of her own blood. Her organs exposed, her body covered in lacerations, her glasses far from her, yet she still had a glass shard in her eye. One eye was ripped in half with a glass shard splitting it, the other, her screams had bursted vessels in it, filling her sclarea with blood, a truly volatile scene. I noticed another thing on her, her sweater was ripped off, and she had what looked like scratch wounds, not the same scratches on her neck, but rather wounds from a time prior to this. They looked like they ranged from weeks to years back. There weren't many, but I have no idea where they could've came from. Well, if I said I had no idea, I'd be lying, I want to assume that it isn't what I'm thinking. Jen, she also smelt faint of Marijuana, I also noticed that she had a card for it on her dresser. She was using marijuana as a form of coping as Clay would use alcohol, both not the smartest way to cope. I don't want to look back on any of this. Absolutely not.
-John Ramirez.
