The Trinket Of Eva Sinclair

Another day, I thought to myself. Sulking in the sombre mood of life– In desolation and distress; In despair and teeming forlorn; In the loneliness and grief; but mostly, in a moment with myself. I sighed and sat on my bed. Plugged in my earphones and was ready to do what I do best when suddenly my room door burst open.

"Aunt May!" I exclaimed, plugging back out my earphones as in came the person herself, with a box held at her side and with the indifferent face of her's. Not caring about anything... particularly me.

Typical.

"I need to get those stuffs you promised to gave up today," she said as she rummages around, taking and dropping a couple of my belongings into the box.

"Ugh! My space is my personal space, for once can't you just- wait!" I exclaimed again. Quickly entangling my feet from the bed sheets and marching up to her.

"Ava, you agreed to donate some of these stuffs to charity. The daycare is also needy and you need to be supportive," she pointed at me.

"I agreed to donate my useless toys. Not my headset and my earbuds that my dad gave me," I stated, reaching for the buds but she moved it out of my reach. I gave her a look at that.

"You're 16 Ava. I think it's time you start losing some of these stuffs," she objected, giving me a hard look as she place the buds in the box.

My tongue prodded in my mouth as I stared at her, my anger riled up but with knowing it wasn't the worth, I restrained myself and instead took the box from her hands. "I'll do it instead," I calmly told her and she nodded her head to go so before walking out of the room.

I let out an exasperated sigh and took back out my earbuds, placing them on my dresser before I went and started packing.

After a few minutes packing the box, I got up, realizing I needed another one after looking at all the toys that I needed to get rid of.

When I was a child, I had a lot of toys. Maybe because my father was a historian/archeologist who specializes in the remains and history of ancient artifacts. And at times, any useless artifact he found he would usually give to me. Well that's how everything was. The perfect little life. Until the loss of both my parents.

My mom, died before I turned three– I hardly have any memories of her; and my father, leaving his last gift to me– I still live in grief of him. With them both gone, I've been living with my aunt. She was kind enough to be my provider, the one who at times see to my needs but often times, I felt alone. Trapped even, in whatever I couldn't get out of.

I decided to go up the attic for another box. It hasn't been encountered in a long time and probably dusty, but it was wiser than seeking problems with my aunt. I walked out the room and stopped by the stairs. Prising down the lever attached to the wall, I watched as the stair formed out the roof, giving me way up to the attic.

I climbed up to see cobwebs filling each corner, old boxes with unnecessary things packed to the side and a vast amount of dust covering every surface of the place. Bad enough that I began coughing uncontrollably. I took the cloth from around my head and wrapped it loosely around my nose. I might as well stash the junk out of a box and use it. It's better than asking my aunt anyway.

I went over to a secluded box in the corner and took it up. I looked in it to see a couple old stuffs– mostly old magazines, broken vases and other junks. I went to a next box and began throwing everything into it before I stopped in hearing a heavy thud, catching my attention. My brows narrowed in when I saw a giant book laying amidst everything. I set the box down and took it up, brushing off the dust covering it before examining it thoroughly. The book had an eerie look to it– the feel of moss disgustingly sliding under my touch from the texture of it's cover, printed with a big T in the middle. I opened it to see it was merely, a journal. A very unusual journal with it's pages messily scribbled in a language I couldn't quite decipher– to which got me confused; and filled with multiple sketches.