She goes to her room, shuts the door behind her with a quiet whoosh of air pressure then turns the knob’s lock. Climbing into bed, her mind is somewhere else, away from the isolated room.
If you look closely, you’d be able to tell the slight frown forming just visible between her eyebrows. She is worried.
Obviously.
She climbs into her bed, fluffing the pillow behind her then half lying down. She pulled the blanket around her and after a second’s thought, over herself.
It’s time to hide from the world and its miseries.
She closes her eyes and lies on her left side, curled up into a protective human ball. Nobody knows what goes through her mind. Certainly, they aren’t thoughts of joy, just thoughts of how things can change in the blink of an eye, in the 5 seconds it takes to pull you down into the fiery depths of of hopelessness, despair and beginnings of hatred for your current situation.
Why do things do not always stay the same just as it gets better, she wonders. She knows that it has always been in the stars, that for her, life will always find a way to screw her up just when it starts to feel better, lighter.
How she knows that, nobody can explain. She just does. Like knowing that water is liquid, and that the boy next door is actually harbouring something for her, and it’s not just friendship.
But she doesn’t care, it doesn’t bother or affect her, she wouldn’t care one way or another whether it was true or not. Still, she knows they are.
Just like the fact that she can never ever lead a constant happy life. There is always a short period of happy times, then Poof! everything comes falling down to pieces in ten minutes. In two days. In a week. Bringing with it destruction, hopelessness and the utter knowledge that everything will never be the same again. The torturous realization that she will have to go through the hurdle again, the hill of problems and loneliness, growing up in ways she does not fully anticipate nor particularly enjoy.
The pain and tears that come every night as she lies there alone, the weight of the world on her. Nobody to talk to, nobody she trusts to really understand.
All she has are just…words.The single letters forming single words,
forming single sentences,
forming single paragraphs,
forming single ramblings.
She doesn’t know any other way to help herself.
One day it will seem as if everything is okay again, and when it seems as if life is worth living again, she recognises that intuition will tell her to prepare for incoming mess that is life’s ironic gift. With a sinking feeling in her heart, she submits to life’s seasons, to the crashing reality that in her life there will never be a truly lasting happiness.
In a locked room under the heaping covers, a tear falls from a girl’s eyelash and drips into the soft bed covers.
***
I read and was truly inspired by the style of writing in Markus Zusak’s The Book Thief. Maybe I should do some illustrations as well, hmm.
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