sjsprWriting

Nervously sweating and pacing, she walked her room like a madman. Constantly glancing over to her desk to peek at the one thing that could save her from the cycle of monotonous anxiety her life had become. She would look at it, sitting there, black, cold, smooth, loaded with the hopes of escape that clawed at her rib cage, as she continued to think, re-think, overthink. That which would grant her escape, would eternally condemn her as well.

She continued to pace her room, purposefully avoiding looking at it. With one swift lift of a finger she could leave behind all her worrying, nail-biting, violent screams of silence. She’d be able to let go of all the anchoring worries that shadowed her, haunted her in her sleep, and yet that quick release would resonate and they’d know. They’d all know. The pain wouldn’t just be hers, silent and hidden. They would hear it, hear of it, talk about it on the streets; victimize her, and claim her defeat.

It came to a point where she could no longer let her life remain a tragedy untold. Fearing the unknown, she grasped the black, hard, cold. She pressed down, hands shaking, as sound drowned her four walls.

“Click, click.”

And pen to paper, her story began to unfold.