November 22.
Some days, silence, other days, screams of agony and pain. It is disgusting how many things I have to comprehend in this hellish hole. Every day is constant fighting with my own mind, every night is battling my fears of what lurks in the dark. Knives, fists, the Raven that sits upon the window sill, messenger of death. Cold winds that blow through the shattered glass window and the bright sun that shines its rays through the cracks of the curtains that shade me from reality.
My room, white, eveything, greys, blue, red. Bed positioned in the middle of the wall on the east side, blankets neatly folded and tucked in, red handprints on the west side, and a decaying body of my newly deceased friend. What is this world I live in? My arms.. bound by this jacket of mind, I will escape. I am the last of them. I will be the survivor. I will be the one to kill them. It's their fault not mine. They're dead.
"Now now, child, is that so kind to write in there, they love you." Said the girl in the corner, grey hair draped across her face. Every now and then she comes to visit from a land beyond that of human comprehension. Each time bringing a new piece of advice. She taught me many things. She taught me art, and writing, and death. My favorite; the raven on the windowsill, a gift she brought from beyond, it has no feathers, nor does it have means of flying, yet with some extraordinary gift it does. Sometimes I'll wonder where she got it, and how it exsisted.
Every now and again she'll sit on my windowsill and sing songs that creep through the air like the mist of a morning of death. What is this obsession that I cannot understand? It's glamorous how minds work isn't it? Sometimes they're be a incident where the man with the medicine comes and tries to make me sleep.. or unable to move. I can't do either. My arms bound with this jacket, but not always, She taught me how to take it off.
Where I came from, do you wonder?
