The way the wind forms whistling tunes against my window, while the pitter-patter of the birch tree's branches scratched at the glass. The paint stains in my frizzed rug, when I used to steal my father's acrylics and his sketchbook full of unfinished stories of graphic lines and swirls. How I used my fingers as paintbrushes to try and finish his stories in sloppy, globs of colored substances. The smell of gingersnaps from my mother's constant need of scented candles, and the small, radiant glow from each fire kiss on every pillar.
I had always loved those things about my home. All were beloved memories. I never had anything to be upset about. My life was... fine. It was fine. Not many people can really say that, once you think of it. I wasn't ever really the victim of any sort of bullying, but I was never the center of attention. I taught myself to be better than that. I had a few close friends and a wonderful family who I had always cherished, and I know for a fact that they loved me back. I got good grades, and had never failed in my classes. And yet, here we are. Usually books and movies surround the weakest person, always wanting to change their lives for the better. To analyze their self doubts, to show them to way of solving the problem. To get the best ending you possibly can. Whether it's becoming popular at school, beating the dragon, or getting the girl. Not many stories have "bad endings". Why should they? Everyone wants to see their favorite character succeed! Yes! Get the girl! Yay! You have friends now!
There wasn't anything wrong in my life. I was decent. And yet, something unique happened. Something, I needed. Something that was worth the story. Worth the aftermath. Worth.. it.
Just remember, not all stories have good endings.
