September 5 (Night):
Dear Ethan,
My body is sore and my muscles ache. I feel as if my tissues are ripped and my joints are broken. I squint into the dim light, hanging with a lack of balance in the ceiling, and get dismal anxiety. Where am I? The narrow walls lock me in and the gray cement gives me a rush of cool air. No windows and no door. But...metal bars? Outside the bars, the area is dark with an eerie light. I feel apathetic and jaded. Where am I sitting...a wooden platform? My head throbs with a twinge of sorrow; my chest feels as if it has a hole in which waves of torment are trying to cover up.
What is this called? Pain? No...it's beyond pain. Death? Am I dying? Am I going to hell for what I did?
I cannot think anymore, my head feels oppressed and plagued with troubled thoughts.
I shift my weight to the right side and lay my body on the cold, dismal, brittle platform. My eyes shut and I mourn myself to sleep, cringing at what might happen next.
Rosalie
YOU ARE READING
P.S. Because I Loved You.
RomanceDear Ethan, I write to tell you how much I miss you. I know that you will never read this but I feel comfort knowing that for once I'm being honest with you. It's the rest of the world that I lie to. But now my lies are getting out of control and I...
