Book Ideas

1

Sleep. The one thing I constantly ask for but never get. At first I assumed it was everyone else's fault because they wouldn't SHUT THE HELL UP! But it wasn't. Turns out I just can't sleep. I've been diagnosed an insomniac at the age of sixteen and have been succumbed to the four walls of dread – my bedroom. A place in which one welcomes the blissful idea of sleep; mine is a constant reminder of how I can never sleep. Ever. So instead I draw. Instead of dreams I produce art.

Peeling, lavender paint, with flashes if pink peeking through (from my girly childhood), and floorboards that creak with every step I take adorn this room. A large table is tucked into the corner of my room, leaving little to no space to walk in my closet of a bedroom. Clothes, books and pencils are scattered everywhere and my closet is filled to overflowing with clothes that I never wear.

It is funny how, although my birth parents were richer than fudging Oprah, they couldn't provide a decent home for me if they died. Which they did. And it's meant to bother me, but it doesn't never being home does that to a person. So here I am. Stuck in homes, drifting from bedroom to bedroom only to once again end up in the same place. My home.

I am currently standing in my little shack, looking around and welcoming the silence and independence that surrounds me. This shack happens to be where I turn up every time I get moved. I run from the sickly abusive or sickly sweet carers only to end back up at his shack formed of wood, metal, blood and sweat. My blood and sweat that is. Eventually, I am going to run out of food and have to go back to the council, only for them to station me at another prison. Because that is how my life goes.

Nothing is easy and no one stays for too long. Death of my parents proved that. But nothing is impossible. Maybe, and this is a big maybe, I will have a real family one day. Not one that's never home or... dead. But a real family that will love and care for me all through my ups and downs. That won't leave me after a month or two. You never know. For now, I'll just lay back onto my mound of moth-bitten blankets and fall into the illusion of sleep.

I trudge slowly up the cobbled path, the heels of my worn-down shoes flapping behind me, as I approach the familiar source of my misery – the services. The food back at the shack has run put once again and I am in dire need of nutrition. Despite my lack of sleep, no bags haunt my eyes and my mind never ceases to stop its intricate web of thoughts. My rucksack, containing all that I own, weighs down my shoulders slowing my slug-like pace even more. Posture is non-existent in my tired back and this straight face is now my only expression.  

So what do you think?

This is just something i wrote in the moment... when I was 12. 

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Tata