megan.milette@gmail.com
In an empty room, with no company but the old, creaking wooden floors and the windows that stood as a gateway to the cold world outside, an armchair sat, caked in dust. The one who once sat reading in it a long forgotten memory.
Her intent was to forget it all. Leave it behind by drowning out everything that could remind her of it. She put her head underwater and tried to breathe in, but her lungs wouldn't allow her to. She stayed under until her salty tears mixed into the freshwater lake, yet when she raised her head again, the voice of guilt still streamed into her ears.
There's a little speck floating in the sky. It could be the free floating balloon of a child now in tears, or a bird in the distance, lost and alone. It could be a speck on my glasses, or something in my eye, but it could also be a helicopter or airplane.
There are a million ways to see things from a distance. It's only when we silence the world around us and look closer that we can see the truth clearly.
It should have been a joyous moment. The tears that wet my cheeks should have been tears of happiness, but instead they were of shock and fear. I wiped his blood off my hands and stared in disbelief at his mangled body, but the truth would not escape my thoughts.
I did this.
Everyone tells me that people are better in pairs. After all, who would rather have a misfit single sock than two that match? But I disagree. It's always been better with just myself as company. I've taught myself to face the world alone, so why should I feel the need to drag another along?
Perhaps I'm better as half of a pair, perhaps I am one on my own.
Why doesn't that alone intrigue you?
"YOU LOST! You'll never be anything but a loser, Miss Cardeth, and I don't want a loser on my team."
This is my basketball coach. He's a short little man with greasy, dull brown hair displayed in a comb over. His face is covered in wrinkles and constantly red, which makes him appear far older than he is, but I suppose a lifetime of yelling will do that to a man. He also has a bit of a belly, but no one would ever dare point it out if they want to stay alive.
My parents always tell me to suck it up. He does this because he knows how much I care about basketball and he wants me to have a future in it. But if he really did, would he push me so past the point of exhaustion that I pass out? Would he bully me to the point where I leave practice in tears and spend my spare time screaming at myself? Wouldn't he for once, just once, tell me I did well, rather than beat me up even when I know that I was better than ever?
He isn't coaching me to be the best at basketball, he's coaching me to believe I could never reach such heights.
I've made up my mind.
I'm quitting his game
And going to play basketball.
I screamed.
I cried.
I shouted.
The murder went undetected.
With invisible blood, there was no evidence.
When no one ever cared, there was no one to notice.
The murder went undetected.
It was a collage of blood and broken bones. An entire village of 79 people, dead. My stomach turned as I made out the frightened and charred face of a child in the remains of a burnt down home.
"I never meant for this to happen."
"You were warned."
"I know...I regret fighting. I feel more beaten now than I would had I lost."
Where there is love, there will always be hate. Time and time again these words have proven to be honest, but now they appear to be false. And still, they haunt me. I fear that hate is simply taking it's sweet time and love is growing tired. Soon enough, hate will be near, and it will devour all else.
And all alone, the invisible queen grew from a forgotten little girl into a lovely young woman- who, to the towns people, was only a myth. She spent her days caring for her gardens, dancing alone in the ballroom and painting pictures of a family she never knew. She had the entire castle to herself, but all the same, the invisible queen couldn't help but feel homeless.
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