~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...
I groaned, feeling like shit as I turned to the other side.
"Hey, come on, love, I made breakfast." He shook me slightly.
"Leave him be." I heard Wendy call out.
"Wake up, Clarke, we need to talk."
"Lock, leave him alone!"
"But I made breakfast!"
I rubbed my eyes and sat up, glaring at him and saw Wendy walk in with a knife held in her hand.
"Oh, you're awake," she said, smiling. Lock snapped his eyes to Wendy and raised his hands, defensively.
"Is Lacey back?" I asked, looking at her. She shook her head, looking at the floor.
"Tell him." Lock said, softly.
"Let him sleep," she said to him, biting her lip.
I looked at Lock for answers but he just stared at her.
"I can take it," I said, passing a hand through my hair.
"Uh--Lock and I checked the garage while you were asleep and--and it was empty."
"They probably stayed with my father," I said, feeling a rip in my heart.
"Draxy, it wasn't just them missing." Lock said, placing a hand on my shoulder, "it's empty. As in, nothing's there. No furniture, no clothes, no personal belongings."
"Oh."
"Draxy, are you okay?" Wendy came closer.
"Yeah, sure, uh--can I be alone?"
"Yeah, we'll be outside," Lock said.
He pulled Wendy away from me and shut the door on his way.
I felt nothing for a moment. A little longer than a moment, really. I don't know how long I just sat there before picking up the journal kept next to me.
I feel like I complain too much. About too many things that don't really matter. But kinda do. But kinda don't. But kinda shouldn't. It's stuff I shouldn't be bothered by but I am. Every time I decide to say something out loud it feels like between my head and my lips something changed and now it sounds hollow and whiney.
Not that there's anything wrong with being whiney. Being whiney is half the reason I get shit done. But. I just feel like it would be a lot easier to let things out if I wasn't afraid of complaining too much. If I wasn't often met with an eye roll that symbolised that I had spoken too much, or a tired groan which meant I simply wasn't interesting enough to hold their attention, or those deep disappointed sighs that mean I've said too much and should probably shut up.
It's hard to not whine. To not complain. When you know you're right in being discontent but can't do anything about it. Sometimes all we can do is complain and make peace with our reality.
I worry that if I can't even do that, I won't be able to process my reality. That I'll lash out more. Demand things I have no right to ask for. Maybe even ask questions I shouldn't.
But there's nothing I can do about it, I guess.
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