Bettexx
We stem from the root planted in the belief that we are not what we were called. ~Shane Koyczan
Closed in. She was trapped. The heavy gates clanged with a deafening toll as a clock strikes midnight for a lonely young man on Christmas day, hoping she'll call. She never does call; she can't.
Nothing was ever neat, and he hated it. Paper lazing about by bins, pen stains on the desks, broken blinds that didn't let the sun shine through. It was prison. Squalid.