|| writing with a stranger. || RANPOE.

| REALITY |

reality

i dropped my pen.

it was fake.

nothing was real.

i was dreaming.

looking down at my novel, the first few words weren't even done.

but, it was late at night.

specifically 2:31am.

retiring to sleep, i headed towards my bed.

i tucked back the curtains.

mental health.

lowering everyday.

no records of my existence.

i don't exist.

the only thing that remains, are the murders.

12 year old me.

guilt.

a murderer at 12.

not even close to being an adult.

4 boys.

to this day, the case is closed.

but.

the screams.

i remember it all.

am i slowly going insane?

or is this normal?

i cannot sleep.

i cannot move.

i can't do anything.

a weak man.

close to death.

barely functioning.

my dreams, my hopes, my wants..

have faded away,

along with my life.

all thats left is the murder.

the crime.

i killed them for a stupid reason.

and now, i'm going to be an author.

an anynomus author.

my identity, still hidden.

for now.