Destroy Me

Chapter 1.0

The Notebook

Whe I first came here and was locked up in a juvenile detention center, the only thing I could bring with me was my thoughts. Being stuck in a 4 by 4 cell with a murders guilty thoughts well let's say thing can turn very bad, very quickly.

But one day at the usual time for my bath they came and took me out of my cell and watched me as I cleaned my self like every other day, except when I came back to my cell, a surprise was on my bed. A simple Notebook and pencil. So having nothing but time and my thoughts I decided to write them down.

And that's what I do everyday all day.

I sit here everyday, 371 days I've sat here so far, I know cause I carve tally marks into the wall as each days passes slowly by. Some days I stand up and stretch and feel my stiff bones ,these creaky joints. This trampled spirit cramped inside of me, I roll my shoulders and blink my eyes.i count the seconds the minutes the hours as they pass by without my satisfaction or care.

And sometimes I have to remind myself to exhale and inhale, sometimes I allow my mouth to drop open; just a little bit as I touch my tongue to the backs of my teeth and the seam of my lips. Walking around the small space of my concrete cell, I trail my fingers along the walls, and feel the cravings I've made, and I wonder what it be like to actually speak out loud and for someone to listen and actually want to know what I think about.

To be heard. And not to be punished for just breathing.

I hold my breathe and listen closely for anything for any sound of life or at the beauty of impossibility of possibly hearing another person breathing beside me. But I'm left with the loud noise of silence like always.

I stop and stand still , I close my eyes and try to remember a world beyond these 4 walls and my thoughts that trap me in here. I wonder what it would be like to know that I'm not dreaming that this isolated existence in not caged with in my own mind.

And I do-I do wonder, I think about it all the time. What I would be like to actually pick up this pencil I write my thoughts with and to shove it in my artery, where my blood circulates to keep me in the reality of this cell. Or to slit my wrist so I could escape the cold harsh world that I don't even know anymore, it's turned its shoulder against me and told me to rot, forgotten about me and my thoughts.

Because I never really know, I still can't tell the difference, I'm never quite certain wither or not I'm actually alive, cause I feel dead. Gone and alone. So I sit here everyday and listen to my breathes, and wonder are they real or a trick of my imagination. Or is the pain I feel the debt I owe for taking a life. Is this my personal hell.

Because if it is, I wave my white flag and I beg for mercy.

I flex my hands and I feel my bones ache. I sigh as I reluctantly put my journal under my bed, safe where no one will find it. And who would, no one actually comes in her anymore, not even for my baths. I know I reek, but you get used to it sadly after a couple weeks.

No one cares about you at the psych ward. Your nothing but a waste of space as my mother used to say before she wrote me off and gave me over to the government. But that's a mothers love, well for me anyways. Who would exactly want a daughter who killed there husband at the age of seven. Who could love a killer.

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A/N:

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Sorry it is really short.