Why She Writes

Chapter 10- Why She Writes Like This

I went home with the four behind me. They were talking about something but I couldn’t understand because I wasn’t paying attention to them. All I understood from them was when they complained because it took us few minutes to walk to my apartment. I just didn’t mind them.

When we arrived in my apartment, I went to my room immediately and looked for the hard copies I have to give to Clark. They just came here actually for my stories. After they got it, they went off right away. I just sighed.

“I guess this is the prize of dreaming to become a writer.” I murmured.

I just went to my room and lied down waiting for my eyes and ears to fell asleep.

I woke up in the morning when I heard some knocks on my door. I rubbed my eyes then I looked at my cellphone.

Eleven?

It’s already late in the morning! I haven’t eaten my breakfast yet.

I heard another knocks on the door that became louder and louder. I unwillingly stood from my bed then slowly, I opened the door for that someone who really wanted to ruin my door.

“C-Clark?” I got all my energy back when I found out it was him.

He didn’t say a single word. He just barged in and sat down on the couch. I was still shocked. Since I only have one couch, I have to sit on the floor. I don’t want to sit beside him.

“W-Why are you here? You ruined my sleep.” I said yawning.

“I read it all.” He said that cut my yawn.

“All?” I gave him so many stories! I couldn’t even finish them all in just one night!

“Why do you write like that?” he asked leaning his elbows on his thigh.

“What do you mean?” I asked in confusion.

“Why tragedies?” he asked with furrowed brows.

I just looked away. I just stared at the door instead of looking at him. I couldn’t answer his question. That’s one of the reasons why I am having a problem with my stories; I couldn’t let go of my past! The pain I felt was written every page of my stories. Instead of using writing as my escape, I used it to express my emotions instead.

“You’re spacing out again.” He said that made me go back to my senses.

“I was just thinking of how to answer you.” I said now looking at him trying not to give him any hint of loneliness.

“So, what answer did you have in your mind?” he asked again.

“I just like tragedies. It’s realistic, I guess.” I said trying to be cheerful.

“But not everything in this world is tragic.” He disagreed.

“But life is full of sufferings.” I defended my side.

“But at the end of miseries, there will always be something good that will happen.” He argued.

“But what if there’s no ‘something-good—that-will-happen’ at all in the end?” I argued.

“You can only say that it’s the end when you’re already dead.” He said with a smirk.

“But what if you died tragically?” I argued again.

“Death will always be a tragedy.” He said in a calm way.

I know that! Death is always tragic! But my parents died in a very tragic incident because of their careless and idiot daughter. I wanna shout those to him but I couldn’t.

“I need you because I don’t want to think of tragic stories anymore.  I need something better than those tragic stories I have in my mind.” I said still looking at him.

“Why don’t you stop writing if you don’t want tragedies?” he asked in a serious way.

“I want to be a writer!” I said raising my voice. Couldn’t he understand me?

“If you keep on writing, then you have to write all the tragedies you have in your mind because you don’t have any other choice!” he also raised his voice at me. “You don’t want tragedies? Then why are you writing? Why don’t you write fairytales?” he asked with insult.

“Fairytales are just so childish!” I exclaimed.

“Then stop writing!” he exclaimed, too.

“Couldn’t you understand? I want to become a writer. I want to erase those tragic stories I have in my mind that’s why I asked your help!” I said while standing on my feet.

“What if our life is also a tragedy?” that shut my mouth up. “What if the reasons why we became like this was because something tragic happened in our life? Would you still write our stories?” he added.

“I might probably make an acceptable ending than those of my stories which always end up with death.” I said in a low voice trying to hold the tears from my eyes.

“What if our stories have no acceptable ending, too? What will you do? Do you think you can change our fate if we are meant to be like this forever?” he said that made me think again.

“B-But, C-Clark, I—“

“You, what?” he cut me off.

“I don’t know what’s with you! I don’t know your stories! I don’t know if you have a tragic past! But I have faith.” I looked down trying to avoid his gaze.

“Faith?” he mocked.

“Faith! I have faith in the four of you!” I said now looking at him straightly, “You are not yet dead! You could still change your life! You could still end up something better than who you are right now.” Then the tears I’ve been holding for a long time flowed down to my cheeks.

“Why us?” he asked in furrowed brows.

“I also don’t know. I just thought that the people around you are wrong! I want to prove to myself, to my friends and to others that you have a very good reason why you became like that.” I said while sobbing.

I also didn't know where those words came from. At first, all I wanted was t know their stories and to submit a manuscript to a publishing company; that's all. But now, why did my reasons become something different?

“If that’s the case, then you’re not writing for yourself.” I stopped from sobbing because of what he said. “You’re writing for us.” Then he smirked.

I still couldn’t find the right word to say. I was really surprised with what he said. Is he right? I want to write for them not for me?

“I wonder why you’re like that. Trying to write and make good stories but you always end up writing tragedies. Why don’t you face the world instead? Ask your parents to send you to college. Then study how to write effectively.” He mentioned again another touchy word I’ve been trying to avoid. I could feel my heart ache by hearing the word parents.

“If you don’t want to do what I want, you can back out.” I said now looking on the floor.

“They say; writers leave some parts of their lives on the stories they create. Is it true?” he asked that made my heart go pump so fast.

I just gave him a confused look.

He just smirked then he stood up. He opened the door and went outside. I just stared at his back as it disappears from my sight. I heaved a sigh then closed the door. I sat down on the floor with my back leaning on the door. 

I was sobbing. I just had an argument with that guy who doesn’t even know about my life! Why am I interested about them, anyway? I couldn’t understand myself! 

****** <3 ****** <3 ****** <3

Shooot! Hmmm I had a hard time writing this part ... T________T I'm not even satisfied with this Chappy ... I guess it needs editing ...

FluffyMarsh