I wrote this a while ago...VERY breifly


Justice?

My dreams are scattered and broken like the varied patterns of my patchwork quilt. I toss and turn, trying to shake myself free of the feeling that I am being watched. I can imagine the hand reaching for my exposed back. Chilling fingers brushing my skin, gently, before the knife severs my spine.
I flip onto my back, attempting to deny the target to my made-up attacker. This happens every night. One of the joys of night terrors. I wake, screaming, so certain that what was in my dreams is real. That I am dead or dying and the culprit is only feet from me.
I know that I will find no more sleep this night. So I crawl out of bed, purposefully leaping far from the framework so as to clear that dangerous region where I might be within the reach of something hiding under my bed. I flick on the light and pull a book from my shelf. This has always been one of my only comforts.
The caress the cover of Grimm's Fairytales, welcoming my oldest friend. My mother used to read this too me when I was younger. Now, when I turn the pages myself, its as though I can feel her spirit comfort me from...whereever she is.
I lay back in bed and pray that she'll help me chase away the nightmares one more time. Even as I feel the tears drawing wet lines on my cheeks I am filled with rage, strong enough to dispel all other emotions. She should never have been taken from me! Fifteen is too young to be without a mother. And he's responsible. Sitting in a jail cell, being taken care of, even without freedom, while my mom is nothing by ashes lying at the bottom of the ocean. This isn't justice.




Short story by Tyr-fira
Read 487 times
Written on 2005-10-21 at 20:15

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Beatrida
Wow! reading that was like I could feel your pain.
2006-03-06