Dear Journal,
The world outside the doors of my prison is unimaginable. The sun beats down on my pale white skin as the letters flow from my fingertips into you. I debated throwing this stupid journal away when I left or just leaving you by my bedside. But here I am writing to you, telling you about my journey into this unknown world. The only upside to carrying around this unsightly pink monstrosity is the hopes of getting some catharsis from writing down my feelings.
The sun has begun to fall on another day of travel. My feet ache from the hard cobblestone roads I followed out to this little river. The grass is wet with the fresh dew of an April shower. The icy wind hits my bare skin like a wave. Washing over my chilled body as I lay in the soft wet grass. The sky is lit up by soft candles, never blowing out no matter how much the wind whips.
My days of walking have been filled with loneliness and sorrow. No matter the distance I still hear the squawking of my mother and her lovers. She probably found my note that I slipped under my door with my empty tray. She will place the mask of sorrow and loss of a child upon her face and will call the newspaper, masquerading as a helpless woman who's precious child has gone missing. My face will be plastered all over the town and all over milk cartons and trees throughout the town. "The milk carton kid" they will call me, just as they did when that girl Pika was abducted. My mother will be like a puppet master pulling my strings, even after I thought I cut them away.
The strings that bind me to that cheerless woman cut into my wrist similarly to the sharp rocks that have scaped my tender knees, as I crawl beneath the fallen tree that is my shelter tonight. The pain is excruciating, yet almost invigorating. The hopes of freedom and the need for excitement fills my body like water fills a bucket.
My eyes feel heavy as my body slowly submits to the cold. The darkness and the soft winds blow past my ear rocking my troubled mind to rest. I think I will rest my weary head here tonight, and let the river just rock me to sleep.
It's morning now, the sun is peeking through the clouds as a soft breeze kisses my head. It has been two weeks since I have left my mother's freakshow, and the sense of freedom still has not fully set in. I look around the bank of the gushing river as I count the leaves floating by. Fifty-two. The water glistens as I listen to the story of its life.
Sometimes I wonder if the freedom I seek is merely an illusion.
A mirage we all chase in hopes it will lead us to the treasure we all seek. The forest, although full of life and nature, feels barren today. Quiet, almost. Has the sense of loneliness infected me, or is my brain just realizing the comfort I had left behind in the numbness of my sanctuary? My body aches from the uncomfortable ground and my brain screams for me to go back and I almost think I should... But I mustn't.
No. I can never go back to the comfort of my home. I will
not allow the pain and suffering of that young child to infect me once more. The chains of my sorrow will bind me no longer. And even if I long for the days of sleeping in my bed without a care in the world, I know that the girl who lived in that bed and wore those chains is dead.
I must follow the path laid out in front of me, and follow suit with my decision to run. The words of my mother ring in my head like a church bell. "The world is a hallway with many doors my young Sofey. We choose which doors to open, and which to keep closed. As we open some, others will lock themselves, just as we close the ones we have opened others will open in return. We as humans must discover what doors are best for us to open, and which to close and lock."
I chose to walk out those pale blue doors, doors that I myself did not open. My mother chose my path and laid me inside those pale blue doors. Damning me to suffer the torture that lies behind them. Behind those pale blue doors, is where I was born and where I inevitably died. In the house where my murderer still lays her head with the many accomplices she had. They thrive on schadenfreude. Drink to the death of an unknown child. The thorn that had been placed on my mother's side had been pulled out and she was free to be who she really was. Her motherly duties had been relieved from her. The atmosphere could not be better for her teenage-like lifestyle.
My journey, however, is far from over. And I will be traveling alone, dear journal. I believe the travel will be more spiritual if I go alone. So this is goodbye notebook, may the person who finds you, use you to their heart's content.
Unknown
04/05/1992 E.N.D
