Entry Two: August 26, 2011
And so here I am, writing in my journal. It's so pretty and pink sitting here on my lap, surrounded by the pale white nightgown, the dark interior of the car, and the gray, thunderous outside. It sits here in clear defiance, and suddenly I'm extremely glad I brought it. So I write.
I'm scared and wondering where we're going. I'm only seventeen, and this has never happened before. I mean, something must be wrong. In all the years I've lived with mom, she's been unstable, but still together. I'm just wondering if maybe she's suddenly fallen apart. I hope not, for both of our sakes.
I ask again: "Where are we going?" She doesn't answer. She sits still and upright in the driver's seat, looking at the road the way a drowning man looks at a life preserver. She clutches the wheel so hard her knuckles are white.
So I sit back. I sit back. I'm writing. I'm sitting. I write poetry on the page after this one. And then I wrote about that poetry on this page, the sentence before this. Oh, the rain makes me feels like I'm going to go insane. And I don't think that this writing is really helping.
YOU ARE READING
Fall
RomanceThis isn't a typical love story. I didn't meet some boy and fall in love at first sight. In fact, I didn't fall in love with a boy at all. Or a girl. Not even a house plant. My name is Thalia Walker, and I fell in love with the world.
