It starts like this:
My mother is young, too young to be a mother.
My father is also young, too young to be so wise.
And I am young, too young to utter more than a cry through my wobbly, Earth-shattering sobs, and thin voice.
Is that not how it starts for everyone?
Two parents, and a kid, and a small apartment room with a low ceiling and caved in walls that practically breathe against your skin during hot summer days?
Doesn't every great book begin that way, every untold story who's pages flutter in the wind like bird feathers. Or perhaps it's just me. Perhaps it's not even me at all.
My name is Esty.
I feel- despite the years, and the time and the hours in which I have breathed that I am somehow not old enough to move forward, but also not young enough to sit still.
For now I am in the middle.
For now I am idle.
For now, yes... but not for long.
YOU ARE READING
Esty (ON HOLD)
Teen FictionEsty thinks she is different. Esty believes that there is no one like Esty. Esty only wants love, but she tells herself she does not need love. (There is a difference after all.) Esty wants to know the world, but really Esty only wants to know herse...
