Spastic Spontaneous Stories of the Short Kind

STORY SEVEN - His Name Was Sean by @_MeltingSnowflakes_

When Cathryn Miller's granddaughter tripped over the loose floorboard in her cosy living room, her first thought was that her depression-plagued grandmother seriously needed to get the house serviced. If there was one thing she did not expect, it was to find an old, leather-bound journal, blanketed with dust hidden underneath the floor when she went to kick the board back into place. She felt her eyes widen into the size of saucers as she stared at it.

"What the heck?"

Feeling her eyebrows furrow into a frown, she'd reached into the hole and pulled it out, swiping the fine hairs of dust from the cover and coughing as it invaded her gaping mouth and nose. A clip, not unlike the one on many phone cases, held the book closed, attached to the back cover with glue that seemed to be losing its stick. Curious to see if it would come off, she gave a single, sharp jerk, the strap came off into her hand.

"Woah," she marvelled, turning the book over in her hands.

She kicked the board back into place and took off up the stairs, climbing them two at a time as she sprinted towards the guest bedroom. Someone, she guessed her grandmother, who was curled up in her bedroom taking, had gone to a lot of effort to hide this and she did not want to get caught.

She, as quietly as she could, closed the door and clicked the lock into place. She'd completely forgotten her mission downstairs to find something to eat before her parents came back a few hours later to take her home. She was sure that, at 11-years of age and only a few months from turning 12, it'd be fine to stay home by herself, but her parents had persisted.

Maybe it was for the better.

She deposited the leather strap on the bedside table beside the lamp and propped a pillow against the bed head for her to lean on. She curled in on herself, the journal's yellowed pages crunching like stale Autumn leaves beneath her fingers. She found the first page, dated back to 1960 and found several lines of writing scrawled in messy handwriting.

September 29th, 1960.

I'm afraid. Deathly. I'm not sure what they'll do if they find out what's happening to me, but I can't let that happen. But if I don't write this down somewhere, I'm afraid I'm going to lose my mind, and a mind is a terrible thing to lose. I'll keep this as updated as possible. I'm leaving next week.

October 3rd, 1960.

I left. I made it out, I think. I don't think anyone saw me or heard me, but I'm not taking any chances. I climbed out through my window and jumped my backyard fence. There's nobody here. There's nobody. For the first time... it's quiet. It's beautiful.

1960.

I'm not sure what day it is, but I think it's been about three days since I left. I didn't bring enough supplies, but I can't go back. I hate it there. I don't know how I lasted as long as I did. But, as much I never thought I'd say this, I miss high school as it was.

---

I don't want to go back. I can't, but I don't have any food left, despite my attempts at starving myself. Maybe if I'm quick. Maybe. I hope.

Cathryn's granddaughter frowned, staring at the journal. She flipped through the pages, all of their pale-yellowed surfaces blank or too water-damaged to read. Was that where it ended?

Was the author... She swallowed, hard. No, that was ridiculous. Of course, they weren't dead. That was ridiculous. Maybe they'd lost the journal or gotten sick of writing in it. She was about to give up when she saw the lines of black flick past her.

1962.

I love it out here. I don't think I want to leave. It's been two-years and nobody has seen me, but the voices are getting more and more creative. I'm not going to be able to stand this much longer. I can't escape my own shadow, not if I ran forever.

The girl felt herself shiver. The next few pages were blank. She was about to slam the leather cover closed when she saw it; a few paragraphs filling the bottom half of the very last page. She felt her body go cold. Fearfully, but her body throbbing with anticipation, she read it, eyes drinking in every last word.

1963.

I can't do this anymore. It's been years, with nobody but an echo of everything I don't want to hear. I can't do this anymore. I knew I wouldn't last long, but I had to try. I was going to hurt them one way or another; this was the lesser of two evils, I can feel it.

He says otherwise.

If there's one thing I am sure of, it's this; I am going crazy.

Everywhere I turn, a shadow speaks. Even if I'm not listening. I can always hear them, chattering, sometimes amongst themselves, mostly about me. But they never say the same things. It's always the opposite; the opposite of those couples professing their love for each other. The opposite of the person telling their daughter that their dog was dead.

And I can hear them all.

I don't know what's wrong with me, but it's something. And it is going to kill me.

I can't do this anymore, and the more I look at the tree branch winding its way out of the tree and the length of rope I stuffed into my backpack, the harder it is becoming to resist. But I will tell my story in words and on ink.

Mum, Mrs Cathryn Millers, I'm sorry. I am. There are no words, and I will never understand what I put you through or how much hurt I caused you, but I'm sure you would rather me disappear into thin air than for you to watch me go crazy.

Jackson, the girl jolted. Her father's name. I don't expect you to forgive me. I'd be more upset if you did, but I did this because I know, despite how much you said otherwise, that you'd cared about me dearly. The shadows told the truth sometimes after all, but that's not important.

What's important is that I am crazy and you are not, and I am trying to save you. But I want you to know why, which is why I'm finishing this entry, the final entry, outside the post office. If the person reading this is not Cathryn Millers, find her. Please. This is my dying wish. But, mum, if this is you, I have something, one thing I hope that you can understand.

I did not do this to hurt you, I would never do such a thing. Mum, I'm sorry. I am. But by the time you've read this, I'm not suffering anymore. I'm not suffocating in a sea of non-existent voices anymore. I am ok. I love you, and Jackson, make sure he knows. XOXO ~ Sean.

The girl felt her breath catch. She'd had an uncle, once, so very long ago. A crazy one, at that. She didn't realise until she heard her grandmother gasp behind her that her cheeks were wet with hot tears, streaming from her eyes. Her grandmother stalked over and snatched the book from her shaking hands, grasping at the leather strap. She was sobbing, hard.

"You broke it," she was whispering, voice drowned at by sniffles and the choking back of tears. "You broke it."

And that was when the girl realised, staring dazedly at her grandmother; her name. Seana. Her name was Seana. She had been named after the boy in the journal.

Her name was Seana.