My bones hurt. I don't know why they hurt. That isn't true. I do know. I recognize the problem here but there honestly isn't anything I can do about it. That's the thing about being overworked. About being alone. My bones hurt and all I can do is write about it. It doesn't feel so much like complaining. It feels oddly justified. Like, this is okay. This is not asking for too much. This is fine. Acceptable. I know we don't talk about my friends too much, reader. But I have them. I promise I do. I don't think you'll ever believe me but I am not as alone as I make myself out to be and yet I'm more alone than I am willing to admit. I'm tired all the time. Last night I woke up because of the pain. And I couldn't fucking move. I couldn't even turn to check if Chase had left. I was alone and I couldn't tell Chase about it. I couldn't tell anyone. The sheer magnitude of my tiredness prevented me from so much as glancing the other way. I can't cry about this because talking about it would be too much. Putting on a smile hurts too. Maybe this is what's wrong with me? The tiredness. The whining to someone who probably isn't even there. Saying that I want to cry and not going through with it. Because that would make it real. Because everyone would know then. I don't want to do anything. I don't want to move. Reader. I don't think I can move and I'm too scared to find out if I should move at all.
I took a breath and looked straight ahead. It didn't make it less real. I was still here. I was still struggling with reality. My bones hurt too. Just like she said hers did. Mine felt real. Like she spoke it into existence. Somehow, she had manifested herself into my reality and made my bones ache. Just because she wanted to someone else to feel the pain she did. I didn't know if I admired her for achieving something of this scale or if I despised her for her complete disregard for anyone else's well being. My head hurt.
I lay on the ground. I read her words over and over and saw the sun go down as the light entering my room slowly turned into orange streaks.
"Draxy? Oh, oh fuck." I heard a soft sob and found Wendy staring down at me, standing by the door. She turned the light on and wiped her cheeks as she saw my eyes staring back at her. I didn't feel like I was myself, like I was in my own body. It all felt so unreal.
"I came as soon as I could." She said, picking up the mushy remnants of my body and putting them together.
"Draxy, I'm here." She stroked my cheek.
I shook my head.
"Draxy, you're going to be okay."
YOU ARE READING
Stolen Pages
Teen Fiction~Her words were my poison. I used them to consume myself. Disturbingly honest. Painfully strained. Carefully penned down. Dangerously addictive.~ A journal that landed in the right hands and told a whole story with words, no lips could speak. Two...
