Beads of perspiration lining my forehead like an intricate embroidery.
3 a.m. it was. The hour of the dead, the hated, the conceited, the forgotten.
I was alive, at least that's what I believed myself to be. The unnerving silence was interfered by the ticking of the clock. As the hands tick-tocked, I felt myself slipping onto something unknown.
Unknown but yet so familiar.
[ this was written few years back on one of my many harm episodes. things get better. jyo. things get better, one second at a time. ]
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Apology ? [ Short Stories √]
Novela JuvenilA collection of short stories on vengeance, love, family, friends and us. On the things which we don't want to feel . Well, at least I don't want to feel. Proceed with caution. I'm not responsible for your mental breakdown.
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