Talking to the Stars (Completed)
Big empty rooms. Yells echoing across the corridors. The stench of Mother's whisky breath. The sound of the clock in the dining hall where Father never eats, endlessly ticking away the hours without him. Sometimes, there are scars that don't go away. This is not a love story. It's not about magic and hope. This is the story of my life, for the times I had no one but the stars.
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I clambered onto the roof, even if it was chilly for star watching. I needed a helping hand.
“Why?” I asked the sky, the moon, the stars—anyone who would listen. But they didn’t answer. How childish of me, to talk to the stars, I was pathetic wasn’t I? Yet I tried again.
“Help?” Nothing.
“Talk to me you damn stars!” I shouted.
Just then, a shooting star flew by, like a dashing stroke of paint, gone as quickly as it had come. It seemed that this was my chance. I said,
“I wish someone would love me, as much as I love the stars.”
And to those words, I went back into my room, my cell, and awaited my fate.
