Hold My Heart

Chapter Two

**Hey everyone! So this chapter has some characters from "The Anderson Boys" written by Milliemorgan. I have her permission to include some of her characters so no worries! Enjoy the chapter!**

We’ve been driving for about an hour now, or at least I think it’s been an hour, but at this point I don’t really care anymore. The music that’s streaming from the headphones that are nestled in my ears has created a barrier between me and any conversation with the Harts, but they don’t seem to mind. They seem nice enough so I don’t think it’s because they hate me, maybe they just know that I need some space and time to myself right now and they’re trying to make me feel a little more at ease; fuck if I actually know, but I appreciate it none the less.

I stare out the window beside me as I watch the scenery go zipping past us. I sigh quietly, so that Caroline and Phillip won’t hear the sadness in my tone before turning to my backpack that’s on the seat next to me. I pull out a pen from one of the smaller pockets, uncapping it quickly and I start writing on my hand. I've always had a bit of an obsession with words; which I guess is ironic, mainly because I've never had much luck when it comes to using them to express how I'm feeling, but I excel at using them to portray emotions in stories.

             I love writing stories. There's just something immensely appealing about creating my own little world that is entirely inhabited with characters that I control completely. My friends have always said that I enjoy it so much because deep down inside I relish the ability to manipulate lives, regardless of the fact that their just imaginary ones, but I denied this adamantly whenever they said it; and I still do even to this day when they bring it up. It's not that I enjoy manipulating the lives of my characters, but I do find comfort in the ability to change and create situations and make them into what I want; which is something I find so comforting mainly because I don't have when it comes to my own life. Unfortunately, this isn't something my friends have ever managed to understand. Sometimes, I base my stories off of things that have actually happened to me. I've always felt that it helps me to put in real emotion, which makes my writing more realistic.

              My love for writing stems from my childhood obsession with reading. I hadn't always liked reading though; in fact I don't think I started to really enjoy reading until I was about seven. That was mostly because I had gotten grounded and the only thing I was allowed to do was read. When it's the only thing you're allowed to do for the next few months, after a couple of days of complete and absolute boredom you finally stop being so stubborn about it. I remember the first book I ever read willingly.

              I had gone into my parents’ room and looked at my father's bookshelves; trailing my fingers along the shelf. I scanned the titles, looking for one that looked particularly interesting. I finally found one, almost completely hidden behind other books, and pulled it out. It had a faded blue cover and the top of the binding was ripped and torn. It was heavy in my hand, and the pages were yellowed and spotted. There no title on the front cover and the title page is torn out. Regardless of the fact that I didn't know why it was called, I had decided to read it anyways. I remember spending hours and hours a day, lying on my bed with the book popped up against my pillows, as I scan the words intently. The day I finished reading the book was a sad say, and I recall the twinges of disappointment I felt when I read the final word on the last page.

After I finished that first book, I am hooked. I would hunt around for any bit of literature, anything with written words; books, magazines, flyers and even menus with old, dried food stains and greasy fingerprints. I read everything and anything I could get my hands on. I loved it all. The smell of paper, the feel of its crinkling thinness between my fingers, an even the fine sharpness of the edges; but most of all, I loved how the letters looked on the page. It had become a large contributing factor that affected my childhood, how I saw the world, and who I've become; in a way, it still does.