amandajs
Jessie could do a lot of things. She could read, write, dance, play the trombone, make ice sculptures and paint. But what she could not do was speak. So when her dad fell down the stairs and snapped his back, she couldn't even tell the 911 operator where to pick up the broken man who had made her.
It was difficult to sustain the beast that was growing inside her. That was gnawing away at her conscience. She wanted so baldy to do what she knew she should not; to hurt those who did nothing but love her. But she had to feed the beast. And the beast wanted blood.
I can't count all the time's that i've seen strangers fracture. They keep a smile on the outside, but their souls are ripping at the seams. They crack. Disintegrate. How can a person try to maintain themselves as whole when not one person has been able to do so?
A soul can fracture. Sometimes into a million pieces, other times into two, or three. The former can be said for Susan B. Johns. But age does that to a person. As does love.
The boy was keen. Quite keen actually. A little too keen. The woman had opened the door out of habit. She was accustomed to the gentile ways of Missouri, where if you didn't open the door, you were ostracized. But, in New York, people were dangerous. Especially too-keen ones who stood in your doorway with a hood a trash bags.
Pouring. That was one way to define the weather outside her window. It beat the panes and attacked the roof with a violence Melody had never seen before in a storm. And she'd seen a lot of storms.
The mayor was a large man, which contrasted sharply with his effeminate mannerisms. When he was first elected, the women of the town were proud. Such a strong man. Protecting their little town. But as time progressed, they grew disenchanted with his laxidasical approach to teen hooliganism.