A Choice

Epilouge

Ever since Vladmire captured me I knew that I was meant for more than stone walls and barred windows that are so high I can only see the blue of the sky. I knew I was more than one dusty old bed that fell apart every night and is covered with moths by morning. More than cleaning, dusting, and sweeping. More than being locked away from the living to live with the dead. I barely remember how grass feels within your toes or how warm it is during the summer, when the sun is just overhead. I can only imagine these extravagant things that, as a child, I probably didn't truly appreciate. Maybe then if I had known the choice I made I would have had better memories instead of being lazy and cooped up in a homely bedroom having "alone time". Maybe I would of listened to my mother more if I knew I would lose her. Maybe I would have played with my sisters and brother, make a stronger bond with them. I guess these wishes are what everyone thinks when their life is taken away from them quickly. Maybe my story is not the most hopeless one, not the most horrible or scary one, but it's a true one and maybe that's why we tell stories, even if we know they are not the greatest, the best of the best, we know that they're true information that needed to get out. Needed to be told. The words needed to float out of the mouth to the ear, making the listener or reader want more. Making them drool over each word. To leave them begging for more. Everyone has a story to tell. Some are just about going to get food, others fighting mighty beasts, or rescuing the girl, but all stories are important. The information behind them is important. To someone, somewhere, your story, your information, your facts, your play, your book, you novel is important. Others are just waiting to hear it. Not even knowing it when they first pick up the book that they will be taken away to the world. To be with the characters. We write stories because they always matter. That's why I wrote mine.