iii. fear
shadows
brushing
against
my skull.
voices
everywhere.
there is a gun
in my hand.
I point it
at her.
no!
I scream every time.
it's supposed to be me!
I'm the one who's supposed to die!
so why, tell me why, I can't drop the gun?
why doesn't the cool metal slip through my fingers and clatter to the ground?
why are my hands steady?
why isn't my breathing laboured?
and
why
do
I
pull
trigger
when
she
begs
me
for
her
life?
blood. crimson blood. blood staining the concrete. staining her crisp white shirt.
her body
f a l l s
and
her green eyes close.
no!
help!
somebody help me!
I scream.
and I take her small fragile frame in my arms.
I don't care that her blood is soaking my skin or my bones.
I don't care that I'm still holding the gun and her body with the same blood stained hands.
I don't care that it's cold so cold so very very cold.
I just
need her
to live.
please!
somebody help me!
she's dying! she's not breathing! help me!
I'm screaming and screaming
but
no one ever comes.
and she dies
every time.
I thrash around my arms and legs failing the sheets tangling with my sanity.
I gasp as if I haven't taken a breath in years.
my skin is damp with sweat and tears and I'm shaking so violently the earth shakes with me.
I am greeted with darkness.
it happens every time.
the same dream
YOU ARE READING
the flatline project
Teen Fictionyou are born and then you die. but it's the things in between that they don't tell you about. it's the monsters and the demons they don't arm you against. the people with their smiles and careful words who turn out to be the ones with the sharpest k...
