The ＷＯＮＤＥＲＳ of My ＭＩＮＤ

[aphelion ✧]

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬ ￮ ￮ ￮ ▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

↣ｃｌｉｃｋ，  ｃｌｉｃｋ，  ｃｌｉｃｋ， 
ｗｅｎｔ  ｔｈｅ  ｋｅｙｓ  ａｓ  ｓｈｅ  ｔｙｐｅｄ  ｆａｓｔｅｒ

For years and years, writing has been an escape, a place for solitude, for myself. Through short plot ideas to awful poetry, any type of writing helps me express my current feelings, both the ones that cause anger to flare and ones that are overly sweet with cliche romance. My characters, they allow me to cope and roleplay, always providing me hours with entertainment online and offline. Everything I write is a part of me. They inspire me to write, to complete my trilogy and excel in my schooling. Writing is my escape.


And I'd love to share my hidden oasis with my lovelies, you guys.

ｃｌｉｃｋ，  ｃｌｉｃｋ，  ｃｌｉｃｋ， 
ｗｅｎｔ  ｔｈｅ  ｇｕｎ  ａｓ  ｓｈｅ  ｐｕｌｌｅｄ  ｔｈｅ  ｔｒｉｇｇｅｒ↢

ｕｐｄａｔｅｓ  ｆｏｒ  ｔｈｒｅａｄ

Ｊａｎ  ３０．  ２０１３ - Finally started this place up
Ｆｅｂ  ２５．  ２０１３ - Started Letters To Ourselves
Ｍａｒ  ０４．  ２０１３ - Cleaned up thread

ｕｐｄａｔｅｓ  ｆｏｒ  ｎｏｖｅｌ

Ｊａｎ  ３０．  ２０１３ - Written first two chapters, working on third and fourth
Ｍａｒ  ０４．  ２０１３ - Have five book ideas now :\

{ { Introduction and Updates } } { { Rules } } { { Prose } } { { Siggies } } { { Characters } } { { Letters } }

[aphelion ✧]

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬ ￮ ￮ ￮ ▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

ｄｏ＇ｓ

✔ Comment! I always like positive ones.
✔ Offer critique nicely.
✔ Point out mistakes in grammar and spelling.
✔ Ask questions. I promise not to bite the first time.
✔ Share ideas and request, when available.

ｄｏｎ＇ｔｓ

✗ Leave negative feedback without critique.

Ex: "That sucked" "That sucked, you need to improve on blah blah blah by doing blah blah blah"
✗ Steal my ideas/writing/characters/etc. That is stealing and against the law.
✗ Plagiarize. Just like stealing.
✗ Request constantly and nag all the time.
✗ Offer stupid advice.
✗ Do stupid things.

ｆａｃｔｓ  ａｂｏｕｔ  ｚｕｃｈｉ

✳ Zuchi has anger managment issues, so beware of his/her bad days
✶ Zuchi is single and open to any gender. Too bad he/she doesn't do online dating
✳ Zuchi doesn't read too often anymore, so he/she might not know of works similar to his/her own
✶ Zuchi is emotional, so beware of those days as well
✳ Zuchi is a writer, but he/she doesn't have a degree in it
✶ Zuchi is mature and does/reads/watches/talks mature things, off this site though
✳ Zuchi loves making new friends!
✶ Zuchi doesn't like making new enemies...
✳ Zuchi is always available for talking to
✶ Zuchi does enjoy his/her roleplays
✳ Zuchi likes gay men
✶ Zuchi adores his/her friends a lot and won't be nice to anyone that makes them mad
✳ Zuchi can be mean occasionally, but he/she never means to hurt someone's feelings
✶ Zuchi adores gift art and shameless advertising *winkwink*
✳ Zuchi is being a scumbag right now by the above statement
✶ Zuchi writes too much...
✳ ZUCHI LOVES TALKING ABOUT HIMSELF/HERSELF OBVIOUSLY

{ { Introduction and Updates } } { { Rules } } { { Prose } } { { Siggies } } { { Characters } } { { Letters } }

[aphelion ✧]

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬ ￮ ￮ ￮ ▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

What is prose? That's what some may ask since it isn't common for a writer around where I live to call their works prose instead of short story, excerpt, drabble, little doodle-dad, etc. Essentially, a prose is something that isn't poetry and isn't a completed novel, meaning no chapters, but maybe parts. Just an ordinary story, even one that was a part of your diary. Any who, all my short stories that I may ever write should be found right here for your enjoyment.

Bleeding Red - Prologue to Another Piece
Takes Two To Tango - Contest Entry

Short Story/Drabbles Form (My Use Only)

Code: Select all

[center][size=200][color=#27125C]{ [/color][/size][color=#8F8791][size=150]{ [/size][/color]ＴＩＴＬＥ－ＴＩＴＬＥ[color=#8F8791][size=150] }[/size][/color][size=200][color=#27125C] }[/color][/size]

[size=85][i]ｒａｎｄｏｍ  ｓｔａｔｅｍｅｎｔ  ｏｒ  ｏｔｈｅｒ  ｃｒａｚｙ  ｂｌａｈ  ｂｌａｈ  ｓｔｕｆｆ[/i][/size][/center]

[list][size=85][b][color=transparent]----[/color]Paragraphs are great. Paragraphs are my friend. This is really pointless because I just wanted space here so I know where to put my pretty writing at. I could've written all sorts of nonsense, but then it wouldn't look like a paragraph when I was finished with it. Like, I could've said blah blah blah, but instead, I actually typed things out just for myself! Cheeseburgers!

[color=transparent]----[/color]Oh look, another paragraph! I'm going to be lazy and just copy-paste the previous one.Paragraphs are great. Paragraphs are my friend. This is really pointless because I just wanted space here so I know where to put my pretty writing at. I could've written all sorts of nonsense, but then it wouldn't look like a paragraph when I was finished with it. Like, I could've said blah blah blah, but instead, I actually typed things out just for myself! Cheeseburgers! Laziness![/b][/size][/list]

[center][quote][size=85][color=#6B6165]---Specifications---
[b]Song} [/b]Song By Unknown Artist
[b]Words} [/b]42
[b]Paragraphs} [/b]42
[b]Lines} [/b]42
[b]Pages} [/b]42
[/color][/size][size=90][b]-Form By Zuchi-[/b][/size][/quote][/center]

{ { Introduction and Updates } } { { Rules } } { { Prose } } { { Siggies } } { { Characters } } { { Letters } }

[aphelion ✧]

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬ ￮ ￮ ￮ ▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬


Yeah...just cause I'm too lazy to save them to my computer and then forget about them later.

Save 1
Save 2
Save 3
Save 4
Save 5
Save 6
Save 7
Save 8

{ { Introduction and Updates } } { { Rules } } { { Prose } } { { Siggies } } { { Characters } } { { Letters } }

[aphelion ✧]

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬ ￮ ￮ ￮ ▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Because I'm an aspiring writer, I tend to create characters and they stick to me, becoming individual people in my head with their own thoughts and personalities. Yes, that may sound odd and out of there, but in all honesty, they are apart of me, so of course they seem real to me. Each one is my baby and no, you may not use them for any reason at all.

Character Form

--wip

---------ＣＨＡＲＡＣＴＥＲＳ

Aaron Octavio Ramos 'Bruno'
Abel Gaius
Adflictio
Akunin 悪人
Alexander Fynn Schmidt
Alistair Vaughn
Anastasia
Angelica/Angelo Akiyama
Beast
Bolzen Schmidt
Bryan Ethan Dubois
Calvin Rizzo
Cass 'Edmond' Spencer
Cassius
Chi Spencer
Cynthia Castillo
Damian Xantheus
Derek Marsh
Désirée
Diego Frenando Leonardo Bruno
Dimitrix
Dominic
Dottie Kain
Ethan Dubois
Eva Sullivan
Ezikeal
Hayden
Heinz Akiyama
Horse
Isi
Jack Haynes
Jackson
Jacob
Jascha Lasovskaya
Jayson Spencer (匪賊 Hizoku)
Jupiter Ryuu
Kadin Vaughn
Kai
Kalypso
Kato Everette
Kiyoraka 清らか
Koichi Ishii
Kumo Ryuu

Liam Ryuu (驚異 Kyōi)
Linux
Ludwig Schmidt
Mahkah
Mare
Max Lebowski
Micah Ramos
Michelangelo Hayden
Muta
Napayshni
Night (Ruddy Lebowski)
Nikolai Lasovskaya
Niyol
Olivia Anna Kozik
Quilux
Quincy Adams
Rainy Dubois
Reed Sullivan
Reid
River
Robin, Cruciate
Robin, Noxius
Ruben (何もNani mo)
Ryan
Seth Gaius
Shiriki
Shisha 使者
Sterling
Sunshine Ramos
Syrian
Tanner Marsh
Till Kozik
Tobias
Todd Brendon Miller
Verision 2.1
Viktor Schmidt
Vince
Viola/Shawn Kain
Vivache Santoro
Xela
Yona-Female
Yona-Male
Zacharias Daniel Ryuu (竜 Ryuu)

|
￮
|
￮
|
￮
|
￮
|
￮
|
￮
|
￮
|
￮
|
￮
|
￮
|
￮
|
￮
|
￮
|
￮
|
￮
|
￮
|
￮
|
￮
|
￮
|
￮
|
￮
|

{ { Introduction and Updates } } { { Rules } } { { Prose } } { { Siggies } } { { Characters } } { { Letters } }

[aphelion ✧]

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬ ￮ ￮ ￮ ▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

This is going to be a rant sort of things, basically a set of letters written between two characters of mine, Alex and Xela. No, this isn't completely my personal experience told differently, but Alex's life told through messages in different order. Yes, some parts are based off of personal experience, but never completely. Since the letters are written are random, I'll post the chronological order here. And yes, it is meant to be vague and confusing and Xela interjects his opinions are random, so be warn for oncoming headaches.


Mama, Mama, why are you crying?
thoughts after the STORM

{ { Introduction and Updates } } { { Rules } } { { Prose } } { { Siggies } } { { Characters } } { { Letters } }

[aphelion ✧]

Ａａｒｏｎ  Ｏｃｔａｖｉｏ  Ｒａｍｏｓ  Ｂｒｕｎｏ
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬ ￮ ￮ ￮ ▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬
ＴＨＥ  ＴＡＬＬ  ＯＮＥ

Ｊｕｓｔ  Ｓｏｍｅ  Ｂａｓｉｃｓ

Name: Aaron Octavio Ramos Bruno

Nicknames: Lank / Bull

Age: 34

Height: 6"8

Hair Color: Black with Blue Highlights

Eye Color: Steel Blue - Grey - Silver

Relationship: Crystoph / Cry

Orientation: Homosexual

Position: Dominate Top

Nationality: Spanish-American

Lank as some…unique looks. Standing at a height of 6”8, he has a very wiry, thin form from a distant, but up close, one can see the muscular arms and legs of him. Each flexing muscles, including the ones on his taunt stomach, were built up over time from the fights on the streets and the chasing of bad guys he had done during his time as a police officer. Parkour and boxing were the two main ways he became so muscular, but thankfully, that aren’t the nasty, bulging muscles of extreme weight lifters.

His hair is even weirder than his awkward build. Black hair tinted with blue highlightsfalls just to the nape of his neck, slightly crossing over the invisible barrier with some strands of shaggy hair. Normally, it is messed up from him running his hands through it nervously or other people just wanting to touch his soft hair. Even though he would prefer it to be smoothed down, he doesn’t normally bother to fix it unless it gets in the way. Then the silver hairpins he keeps with him come in handy.

Besides the basics, Lank has startling grayish silver eyes, brilliantly standing out against his skin tanned from the years of being out in the beating sun. They change colors though, from actual silver when he gets excited or energized to a dark grey, only happening when he gets furious/fighting or excited by someone/

Finally, all the little flaws that make someone unique. Long, deep scars, that looked similar to a cat’s own scratches, run along his back and hard stomach, criss-crossing each other and appearing random. Another scar seems to look like a star etched onto his stomach, poorly drawn on there by a knife and branching off from the center. Two bullet wounds cover his maimed body, one scarring his right shoulder while the other scarred the left side of his chest, breaking one of his ribs. Finally, he has another scar the shape of a dog's canines on his right calf and another scar runs along the inside of his right thigh, starting way up and not ending until it passes his knee. Other than those scratch marks, a faint, pale bite mark similar to two fangs are settled in the crook of his neck on the right side.

--wip

[aphelion ✧]

ＷＨＡＴ  ＩＳ  ＴＨＥ  ＷＯＲＬＤ
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬
It was a world, a world devoid of color.
It was a world, a world without light.
It was a world, a world that was just a shell.
But, he lived in this world.
And he wasn't devoid of color.
He wasn't without a light.
He wasn't just a shell.
He was the creativity.
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬
ＷＩＴＨＯＵＴ  Ａ  ＬＩＴＴＬＥ  ＣＯＬＯＲ？

ＢＬＥＥＤＩＮＧ  ＲＥＤ
By Zuchi

 

----words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words

----words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words

----words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words

----words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words

----words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words

Specs
Words: 1234
Lines: 123
Paragraphs: 12
Pages: 1
Song: Strobe, by deadmau5.

Explanation:

@ 0:00 words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words

@ 0:00 words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words

--wip

Note To Self:
No dialogue whatsoever
Setting - Dull & boring / in the city
Characters - Vague description of them / focus more on other things that you'll hopefully remember
Beginning - Pattering of rain / running through alleyways
Middle - Creativity flowing, branching off
Middle - Epic fight like always (may switch)
Middle - Chase (may switch)
End- ? Morose maybe

[aphelion ✧]

ＪＵＬＹ  ２３，  ＸＸＸＸ

ｔｈｏｕｇｈｔｓ  ａｆｔｅｒ  ｔｈｅ  ＳＴＯＲＭ
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬



I wonder…well, I wonder about a lot of things. Not great things either. It’s more so that I over think, over analyze every aspect of my life, from why I was born into this family to how does my relationships with peers continue to thrive. And, as I inspect the tiny crooks and crannies in my life, it becomes overwhelming, as if I were being suffocated into a whirlwind, which is what this feels like right now.

It’s hard to decipher these emotions playing across my head, beckoning ones that are better to feel at the moment than others, yet it never works. Why is depression the most prevalent though? Maybe I was just born depressed, just one little package of depression for my dearest mother. She’s one of the main causes of it though, you idiot!

Yes yes, I know. Now go back into you corner and hush. I’m writing.

A few times in the year, whenever the urge to do oh so many things to myself isn’t around, I feel okay. No, never happy. I’m not sure if I’m ever going to be capable of feeling joy and cheer again, not after what she did to me. Not after what they did to us. Not after what he brought into our home, after she broke it down with those beasts of men. Oh, those little spawns of devils, they were a delight to have around, weren’t they? You remember everything they did to us and you remember all the fu-

I said hush and sit over there now. I’m trying to write here.

They did many things, but loving me was never one.

Loving us?

Loving me. They created you, weaved you inside my skull and tattooed your every existence inside of me. Like a ink dripping down into water, you branched off and ensnared my logic, my brain, my every being. No matter where I go, no matter what I do, you are always there rambling on and on about the people on the street. Complaining of how cold it is, whining about how dreary it is inside of there. Never do you shut your mouth about anything and for once in my life, I’d love it if you were to shut up!

No need to be rude about mister.

You’ll get your chance tomorrow to write. It’s mine turn now though.

Over the years, the pain has lessened, just a throb in the back of my head like an oncoming migraine. I hope to never see the day when the migraine hits me hard though. My scars, the ones along my arms, there are still there, a reminder of what I’ve done. What he has done to our body.

Yes, to our body. These scars, some of them were mine. Yes, I have carved into my skin, seeking this release that so many praise and rejoice in, but it escapes my grasp all the time, slipping through my fingers and blowing away like the sand it is. The other scars, not just the ones along out arms, but the ones contorting out back into a morose painting and the ones along our thighs, painful memories, were from those...

...our brothers

I cannot remember correctly the last time someone has marred my skin though, but must have not been too long since the X near my lower back still stings with the slightest movement and burns as I bend over. That’s only a mark though, a mark for the time we’ve been separated from them. Probably no more than three days since we’ve run away, leaving behind our handiwork for father to see, for the entire world to see so that may to elate in the good that we have brought into our world

Yes, such beautiful work we did back there. It was marvelous; it was a true masterpiece compared to our mother. Far better than the work they have done on our backs, on our thighs, on our eternal being that has been dirtied with their touch for too long. Born white, it has turned black, darker than the soil on the earth that gave us birth and life, which brought meaning to our existence. As the blood mixed into the freshly tilled soil and soaked the ground a bloody picture, it was then that it turned as dark as we are now. When we had dirtied out hands like they did to our souls, it was then that we matched the earth that brought us here.

And, that’s where we hope to end up one day; back into what gave us life.

[aphelion ✧]

ＪＡＮＵＡＲＹ  ６，  ＸＸＸＸ

Ｍａｍａ，  Ｍａｍａ，  ｗｈｙ  ａｒｅ  ｙｏｕ  ｃｒｙｉｎｇ？
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬



I’m worried. Mama hasn’t come out of her room in a long time and I’m worried about her. No, you’re not worried about her, but more so what is going to happen to you. Every time she gets like this, every time she buries herself into her room with the doors locked tight, hiding her forbidding secrets from prying eyes, someone is to blame. My brothers, they usually make her like this.

I never understood why, but those two always wound Mama up and made her upset. Picking on her, teasing her, they did whatever to satisfy their carnal, sadistic desires. I know. I know very well from personal experience. But, they have never tried to hurt Mama before, at least not physically. Always, they would just pester her until she popped, just like any kid would do at such a young stage. Begging for attention, crawling at her feet for just a small, reassuring word; that is what those mongrels would do.

I think they are jealous, jealous of all the love and affection Mama gives me. She always loved me the best, even though every day when she takes care of me and her pent up stress, she hysterically screams how she wishes I turned out more like her, a girl. Sadly for her, I was born with male anatomy, but I think she still loves me all the same. She does give me more attention that my brothers.

“Alex, you’re crying again. I hate it when my baby cries.” She would tell me that every time I started to cry, so I tried hard never to. I’ve been getting better about it. As the pain from where I nicked myself with a knife cutting vegetables with Mama, I’m practicing, swallowing down little whimpers and blinking away unshed tears. All just for Mama, just for my Mama.

That’s why my brothers started to grip her arm tighter, fingers leaving bruises on her pretty skin just because the envious monster gripped their throats tightly. I didn’t like that at all. Being the good son I was, I’d always want to stand up to them, but they scared me. I always stood in Mama’s shadow to hide from them rather than standing in their’s. Some days, I think they overlap each though.

I’m never sure which shadow I hide in anymore, but as long as the darkness hides my flaws, my oh so many flaws, I’m happy. It has become a home for me, this darkness that I’m fond of. It keeps my company when I’m not needed and comforts me after I’ve been a bad boy, deserving of sitting in the gloom. Mama's shadow always feels the safest, like nothing is ever going to happen to me, like I was wrapped in her arms and away from my problems.

My brothers’ shadows feel colder, icier to stand in, yet at the same time, much warmer than my own father’s. His shadow scares me. His shadow isn’t like anyone else’s. Instead of being hot and torturous like Hell, it was cold, but not any ordinary cold. When I was in his shadow, cowering behind him and clutching desperately onto his suit jacket, I felt nothing. I did not feel happiness, yet I did not feel sadness. I felt nothing, absolutely nothing. And, I think that’s why it is the scariest.

Behind Father is so cold, dark, and bleak, nothing can survive. It is absolute zero in his shadow. The coldness, it seeps into my skin and tendrils out, ensnaring my bones within its chilling grasp. Then, it weaves upwards and spirals up. Up up it goes until every part of my body is numb with its presence and nothing it left in its wake. Not a single emotion.

To some, this would be seen as a blessing, but they have never experienced nothingness. Without an emotion to rely on, you are left with nothing to do, no guidance to what will happen next. Happiness can show you the rode to a happy life, anger will bring you into fights, and depression will show you the end, but nothingness will get you nowhere. You don’t even have the strength to just end it all there and then. You are left without anything. It hurts so badly, physically hurts your heart, when you finally figure out you are incapable to feel a single trace of emotion. It hurts to know that you are just some object, something without feelings for others. But, what hurts you the most is when you are treated like the lifeless doll you truly are.

Mama is still locked up in her room though and I’m still worrying that something is terribly wrong with her. I’m afraid to go ask my brothers what they did to her, but not because I’m afraid of them. I would never be afraid of my own brothers. I’ve been grounded again and have been told not to leave my room. The desire for just a little peak is too much though. No one would know if I just snuck out for a moment and went to Mama’s room to comfort her. She needs it so badly too. Just tiptoe through the hallways and sneak inside where I’ll be safe and can help her.

But, I would never disobey Mama either. She’s the one who told me to stay in my room until someone called for me. That was a day ago though and I haven’t heard anyone yell Alex just yet. I hope they didn’t forget about me again like they did last week, but it was fun to play in my room alone and not be pestered by anyone. The only reason I know Mama is locked in her room again was that the door slammed shut and Father screamed at her to open it, yet not the slightest creak could be heard from where I pressed my ear tightly against the door. After that, everything was quiet again. Even my brothers didn’t dare run down the hallways like that liked to do when Mama got like this, so of course I was anxious to know what happened.

Every now and then, I’d hear someone say my name and I hurriedly run over to the door, hoping that I was being called, but Alex was just another swear word to them and never did I hear “Come here Alex.” Only Alex did blah blah blah or Alex is yadda yadda yadda.

But, I can’t keep into my room for so long. A small peak and I’ll be back, I promise.