Stories

A Moment With the Real Me


Usually for the writing done on this blog there is no plan, no outlines, no pre-writing. This is the place where I just write, whatever usually comes into my head, and I never usually share my personal writing because I’m not sure how people would react to it. Some of my more personal work is dark, twisted, morbid, but what the hell, why not.

But please remember, this is all fictional, none of this is real.

She said this time she’s really leaving.

                Sometimes she says that.

                                                                It’s always hard to tell if she’s bluffing.

                She’s got two suitcases packed.

                                                                                                She’s serious.

                                Maybe I should tell her to stay.

                                                                But they said we don’t need her anymore.  

So really she should just go.

                I’m sitting on the floor, I think I can see her crying.

                                And I think she might be yelling.

                                                                                It kind of sounds like she is asking me to try.

 

 

But why?

 

Why would I want to try and make her stay, if we don’t need her anymore?

 

                                                                                The door slammed.

                                No more sweet Allison at night.

I don’t need her, she was crazy.

                                                                               

                                                                                                                                She will be back soon anyhow.

 

I get up off the floor, and move to the bathroom.

I taped a blade to the bottom of the bathroom sink a few months ago.

                                I haven’t seen my own blood in weeks.

                                                                I closed my eyes once the cold blade was in my hand.

And I cut.

                                                                                                I cut deep into my arm, and I inhale sharply.

I don’t open my eyes, but I see my blood.

                                It looks like Allison.

And it looks like my brother.

                                                                                It looks like what has been stolen.

                                                                                                                                                And what I’ve lost.

I crawl into the tub and I lay there, letting my arm bleed.

                                They tell me by doing this, I can see. I can see everything they want me to know.

So I take the blade, and cut once more into my thigh.

                                The blood looks like my stolen childhood.

                                                                                                                                It looks like drugs.

Like sex.

                                                My blood looks like everything I have ever done wrong in my life.

Everything that makes me human.

                                They make me feel as though I’m not human.

                                                Like I’m just a host for them to play around in.

               

 

                                                                                               

 

                                                                                                                They’ve taken everything from me.

When I was nine, my brother told my mom about Stella.

 

Now Stella was not the first one that came to me, but she is the one who started this mess.

                                At first, I did not talk to them aloud. Archie, the first one that came to me, told me if I talked to them with my mouth that someone could hear me, and they would not understand.

                I guess I was the only one who could see them.

Tucker, my brother, once heard me fighting with Stella.

                                We did that a lot.

                                                                                Looking back now, Stella had a lot of passion. She was always getting me to try and do things I knew I shouldn’t do.

 

Like talking to her with my mouth.

Tucker told mom that I was yelling at myself in the bathroom for an hour.

Tucker could tell on me because he was thirteen so he was obviously entitled.

Mom asked me why I was yelling at myself in the bathroom.

                I said I didn’t know what she was talking about.

Mom asked me if Tucker was being a liar.

                I said this time Tucker kind of is a liar.

Mom asked me what I meant.

                I said I was yelling, but not at myself.

That’s when Stella told me to shut my fucking mouth.

Mom asked me who was in the bathroom with me.

                I said I didn’t know what she was talking about.

Mom said, if you weren’t yelling at yourself, someone had to be in there with you.

                I said she was right.

Stella began screaming so loud in my head.

Mom said something but I couldn’t hear her.

                I think I screamed.

Moms lips moved some more, but she didn’t look scared.

Stella was still screaming.

                I dug my fingers into my face and began to scream.

 

I have a scar under my left eye from that day.

                                                Weird how that works out.

 

 

 

He was really good at hiding it, we had no idea what was going on until his brother mentioned he was arguing with himself in the bathroom. 

Advertisements

This is a work of fiction, and nothing more.

I once knew a boy, he was never anything special really. No one ever talked about him, no one picked on him, but no one ever really knew him either.

A quiet kid.

I wouldn’t even say he was a sad kid.

But of course this I don’t know, being that I don’t know him. I didn’t know him, but notice him, yeah I did that. He had this way about him that was always making me watch him. Like I said, nothing special, but something elegant. As if there was a story to tell, but he was too young to tell it, or we were too young to listen.

Come to think about it maybe his silence was all he had, maybe he thought if he was quiet someone would ask him something. But we never did, instead he played alone on the playground, sat alone at lunch, walked home with no one. 

Eventually we grew up, he met people that I guess he felt he fit in with. I still noticed him, every day, we even talked a few times come middle school and high school. Not friends, but we spent some time together.

I remember one random day I asked that boy to walk home with me. I only did it because I knew we walked the same route, so why the hell not. We didn’t go home though, instead to this little pond no one ever went to. He was pleasantly surprised I knew the place, I remember because it was the first time I’d ever seen him smile. He had a pretty smile.

We sat on a log, and put our feet in the warm water. He talked to me about music, and the world. He talked to me about the beauty in nothing, and the ugly in everything else. I didn’t say a whole lot, he did enough talking for the both of us. 

He told me he wasn’t a good person, he told me he’d done bad things.

At that moment I guess I should have been scared, I should have told him I had to be home before my parents started to worry. Instead all I could do was sit there with him, and listen to him tell me about the life no one ever asked about.

This boy, he doesn’t want to live anymore, says he’s done too much bad to ever get anything good. I looked at him, and suddenly the boy no one ever noticed seemed like the only thing in this whole damn world. 

I told him he could change.

He said he’d given up.

I remember then there was this rage that emerged in my chest, I wanted to scream at him. 

I wanted to tell him that even if he didn’t believe that he wouldn’t see good in this life, leaving this life wouldn’t be any better. That killing himself eliminates any chance he could ever have of redeeming himself. I wanted to tell him this was only a moment of weakness.

This boy I didn’t even know.

A New Look


Let’s be frank for just one moment.

I am one hell of a writer.

I think it’s about time I open the door for everyone to see the intensity of my passion. To feel the feelings of my characters. To say, Hey! Ever read the blog Mindless Monsters?

And for my regular readers, yes, you read it correctly.

I have officially changed the look and of course, the name, of my blog.

I’ve decided to take this blog in a direction I never thought I was capable of.

But I am more than capable.

Short stories, poems, letters, deep abstract tangents about everything.

This blog is no longer my “personal journal”

It’s now my stories, shared with you. 

This One is for You


This blog post is completely fiction, but I hope it helps you.

My name is Steven, I’m 14 years old and I hate my parents. I hate my parents because I never get what I want. Last week I asked if I could stay at my friend’s house until 8 and my mom said no and picked me up at 7! I told my parents I wanted a pot roast for dinner and my mom said “That takes too long, I’m just going to make home-made pizza for dinner tonight.” My life is so unfair, sometimes I wish I was never born.

My name is Lia and I’m 17, I was raped and I got pregnant. My parents don’t believe me. I’m not 4 months pregnant, homeless, and scared. I asked my boyfriend if I could stay with him for a while, but he thinks I cheated on him and am now pregnant with someone else’s child. I don’t go to school anymore because I’m ashamed of myself. I know that being raped wasn’t my fault, but why doesn’t anyone else think so either?

My name is Kat and 16.  I’m a straight A student, President of the Senior Class, Aspiring Lawyer, and my parents pride and joy. Everyone likes me and wants to be my friend. My life seems perfect but there’s just one thing: I’m a lesbian. I feel like I can’t tell anyone because everyone will hate me and all my hard work will mean nothing. I feel like I’m not living because I’m not being who I really am.

My name is Zack and I’m 22. I have a wife, 2 kids and 1 dog. I make enough money to keep my family happy and I love my job. It’s taken years to get to this point but I’m glad I finally made it. I couldn’t be happier with my life right now.

My name is Mandy and I’m 91, I’ve lived my life and I’ve watched my kids grow up, it’s been a rough life, but it was all worth it. I’m old, and I can’t do much, but I’m happy with what I’ve done with my life. I’ve changed lives, and inspired many people. In this very moment almost everything is perfect, the one thing missing is my husband Mac, he died 1 year ago and boy do I miss him. His love was what made my world go round. Now that he’s gone.. well… life just isn’t the same anymore.

 

Everyone’s story is different, what’s yours?

———————————————————————–