In the past, she was like a bright light leading me through tough times, a symbol of hope that kept me going. Despite the passage of years without communication, when the time came to reconnect with her, I found myself instinctively gazing up at the...
and i wanna cry, i wanna learn to love, but all my tears have been used up on another love. - Tom Odell, Another Love
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S E P T E M B E R 1 6 T H 2 0 1 1
In the midst of the chaos and disorientation that had consumed me for what felt like an eternity, a moment of clarity descended upon me yesterday, like a sudden burst of sunlight piercing through stormy clouds. It was as if I had stumbled upon a hidden path in the dense fog of confusion, offering both solace and unease in equal measure. And there it was before me, emerging from the haze of uncertainty—the familiar sight of my father's old shed.
This was no ordinary building; it was a place steeped in the echoes of past pain and suffering. The walls bore witness to the agony I endured, etched with the scars of my father's wrath. Taking in the rundown interior, my heart sank. The shed, once filled with light, was now cloaked in darkness. Its windows, once clear, were now obscured by dirt and neglect. And in the empty space, there sat one solitary chair, a haunting reminder of the horrors that unfolded here. Some things just never change.
Back when I was young, before we moved to Alabama, this shed was a house of horrors. It bore witness to my father's violent temper, his fists leaving bruises and scars. It became my prison, where I felt trapped and powerless, unable to escape the torment.
But even in my darkest moments, there was a glimmer of hope—a girl named Alex.
I still vividly recall the day she stumbled upon me right here in this shed, witnessing the horror that unfolded within these walls. Her eyes widened in shock at the sight of me—battered, bruised, and silently pleading for help.
After that day, I made her promise, swearing her to secrecy with a solemn vow. She pledged never to set foot in this cursed place again unless absolutely necessary, driven by love and desperation.
In the dim light trickling through the dusty windows, I couldn't shake a growing sense of unease. Did Alex receive my desperate messages hidden in my poems? Or did my words vanish into the silence between us?
With each moment passing, the shadows deepened, casting eerie shapes on the worn floorboards. The echoes of my unanswered pleas bounced off the walls, mixing with the thick air of uncertainty filling the space.
In the depths of my mind, her face still lingers—the worry etched on her features from that day long ago. But now, without her comforting presence, doubts gnaw at me.
I couldn't shake the nagging doubt: did she uncover the hidden messages woven into my poetry? Or did my heart's secrets remain locked away, buried beneath layers of metaphor and symbolism?
The chair, once a haven, now bears the weight of endless hours of agony. It sits there underneath me, weathered and worn, a silent witness to the torment that unfolded in this dimly lit shed.
