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Get out your map, pick somewhere and just run.
Dog Days ╱ Klaus Baudelaire
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Burn all the piles, desert all your past lives, and if you don't recognize yourself, that means you did it right.
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Imogen Graham was no stranger to tragedy.
She had watched tragedy while it invaded her home and contaminated every aspect of her life with its disease-ridden soul. She had stared into the empty sockets where its eerie eyes had once been while she mourned the loss of her parents and every time, without fail, a shiver ran down her spine as it stared back with a mocking frown on its cold lips.
Often as she lay awake in bed, its ill-omened grin flashed in her mind and served as a taunting reminder of what might have been her life had tragedy not stripped her of any hope and contentment she managed to cling onto.
Imogen Graham knew tragedy, and the worst part was, she couldn't imagine her life without it.
She couldn't imagine living without that constant icy embrace or malice-filled whisper in her ear. Tragedy served as a plug in the sorrowful chasm growing in her heart and she feared once it left, loneliness would fill its place.
And as much as she hated the thought that she was almost entirely dependent on tragedy and its chokehold on her, she hated the idea of loneliness exceedingly more.
She feared and hated the idea of not having anyone or anything around her so much that it clouded her mind and she almost missed him.
