Bringing it back.
It was a rainy afternoon in a comfortable house on the west side of Aurora, Colorado where a twenty-four year old made way down to the basement. He turned on the light and let himself fall onto the rug on top of the cold cement before deciding to keep looking through the old boxes. You see, he had moved in with his partner about a year and a half before and after they got engaged he decided to just finally bring all of his belongings to the house. Including all the boxes that hadn't been opened since they were packed years ago.
"Jesus Christ," he muttered as he opened the box with the teeth of his house keys and picked up a picture frame resting at the top. It was a picture of him and his family when he was only six. He sighed and looked at the three other people there. He set the picture down before pulling out a book – a year book. It appeared most of the things in the box were from his sophomore year of high school. He sighed as he saw the picture of him and his friend making snow angels.
Half an hour later, he sorted through the package and slid it across the room to the other boxes. He opened the next box with 'Summer' scrawled on it in permanent marker. He found it to be brimming with memoirs of the summer he would never forget. He picked up a photo album and scanned through it to see pictures of cars on the road and random places he'd passed while driving around that summer. He then came across an image of himself frowning, displeased at having his picture taken. The corners of his mouth turn up slightly at the picture of the open road from the inside of the car he spent the majority of that summer in. He decided he didn't want to see any more of that and ignored all other pictures. He hummed distractedly as he found a jacket at the bottom of the rather large carton. He scowled at it before noticing there was something in it. He reached in the inner pocket of it to find a small book, a notebook it appeared – no, a diary. He gave a small smile before remembering sneaking into the room, silently searching for it then taking it with him and hiding it in his sock drawer before reading it that whole night and then never opening it again.
He decided he would read it again. Why not?
Ciel decided to skip along, trying to find something interesting.
16 July
Ciel was here.
He chuckled at the sight of his own handwriting there, nothing else not the page except for that and a couple of doodled hearts.
27 July
Ciel hit me in the head with a tennis ball after I tried to teach him how to play. It was my fault, really. I told him to aim for my head, and I suppose he did as told. . .
Ciel let out a bit of laughter remembering that. He sighed before closing the book and setting it in his lap.
Ciel thought about it, sitting against the wall on the old white, dirty, woven rug, staring upwards at the cracked ceiling. He would be at home by himself for three days... he could definitely read it.
And there it began again.
