The Wandering Girl

The Wandering Girl

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    Chapitres 3
WpMetadataReadEn cours d'écriture14m
WpMetadataNoticeDernière publication lun., nov. 30, 2015
It was raining the day I left home for good. My little sister began crying. It tore me apart, but I couldn't stay. She wouldn't have understood my reasons, so I kept them to myself, bottled up deep inside my heart. We were living on a jar filled with paper bills, we had been since dad left and mum drank herself to death with a bottle of Gypsy. I couldn't take the sadness, the melancholy, the memories of living in that house. So I left. Mentally, I had left years ago, along with the trunk full of trinkets mum and I used to collect. I left with all the memoirs of our past, sold one by one when money began running scarce. I physically left three years later, with a suitcase full of clothes and four $30 bills shoved into my back pocket, determined to wander the planet until I forgot.
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Broken

I close my eyes. I'm not going to die. I'm not going to die. Suddenly, I feel my stomach drop and my head start to spin. I try to scream, but nothing comes out. I try to breathe, but my mouth is dry. The sickening feeling continues for about a minute, then it stops. I open my eyes; I'm not dead... Yet.

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