Dear Journal,
It has been approximately six months, seven days, and 37 minutes since I have last written to you. When written out the time seems so long, but in reality, it feels as if I had just written to you yesterday. If that were the case yesterday would be a never-ending nightmare from Hell. I have resorted to locking myself in this quiet room, the farthest point in the house.
This didn't faze my mother, of course, she just kept living her lustrous life full of sex, drugs, and partying. Instead of being a motherly figure to her only child, she filled the house with her lovers like a putrid stench. Each one of them feeding the black hole that is my mother's heart. Some feel pity for me and leave notes and treats outside my door trying to make some connection with me. Others parade as if they understand what I am going through and try to force me from my sanctuary. I have rejected each and everyone that has walked through those pale blue doors. None of them, not even my mother, means a damn thing to me or my future.
The future, like a game of chess, is constantly changing. As we dodge our checkmates in life, we know that the game will inevitably end. Whether the ending is the one we hope and pray for or the one we wished would never occur. The future is ambiguous, but not completely concealed. We see glimpses of each of our futures, as ideas, as innovation, as dreams. But we ignore those openings into the future. We disregard how the world is now and fill the norms of society. We become the stereotypes we despise and dream of breaking.
Six months, seven days, and 56 minutes, I have been locked away with my thoughts. Time feels frozen in here but I know it's not. I hear the ticking of the clock outside, a large cedar brown grandfather clock with the family crest carved into the pendulum. It is the only remnant of my grandmother's legacy left in this broken home. My mother gutted the place when we acquired it from my grandmother's will. She left me as the sole beneficiary of the will, but because I was only about the age of 5, my mother took it upon herself to fill my role. The whore took all that was left to me by my grandmother, leaving me with nothing more than a golden necklace of a poppy flower and a letter that my mother will never allow me to read.
Six months, seven days, one hour and twenty-two minutes, that is how long I have suffered in this room full of shadows. The days are carefully marked on my calendar, with a red marker I saved from my days outside of this room. But no longer will I suffer in this room of torture. I have packed my single duffel bag and finished my manifesto and the will of Sofey. The girl who lived in this room. For she became numb to the abuse of all who surrounded her.
I think one of my mother's many lovers said it best, her name has all but faded from my mind, but her words have pierced themselves into the darkest recesses of my brain. Burrowing deep into my psyche. "To break from our chains in this realm of disaster and sorrow, must begin with the breaking of the chains we place on our mind." The only way for me to grow and escape my suffering and comfort of this numbness I feel is to break the chains in my head. My name is no longer Sofey Remilia Momiko, no more will let these chains of sorrow and burden burn into my skin. I will escape.
Six months, seven days, two hours, and fifty minutes, the time I spent in this room. Sixteen years, six months, seven days, two hours, fifty minutes, and six seconds. That is how long Sofey Remilia Momiko had lived her life. May her last words be ones of hope and joy because death, even if it is the death of just a name, is painful. Change is painful, but it's better than being held back by chains.
- Unknown
04/19/1992 E.N.D
