My First Real Story

I have written short stories before, but I am feeling particularly ambitious and I have started something.  Not sure if it will develop into a novel or just a short story, but we shall see.  It’s pretty raw– not edited. Have a look.

Chapter 1

I’m at rock bottom.  I told my blog readers that if I moved back in with my parents it would be as good as six feet under.  They didn’t respond.  Of course.

When you’re sitting at the bottom of a well, no one cares anymore.  They watched as you tripped and fell in, lending artificial words, “Oh no!  I can’t believe you didn’t see that rock lying over there;” when you know damn well that life pushed you. They reluctantly reached out a hand as you scraped your arms and legs against the side just trying to get to them; they were too afraid that they’d fall in too.  And when you’d lost your grip and tumbled down into the darkness, they wondered if they would be blamed.  When you stopped screaming for help because you were unconscious, that’s when they walked away realizing there were no witnesses. And only after they were gone did you awaken from the concussion to your head.

Do you know why people kill themselves?  Because no one listens to them anymore.  See, by the time a suicide happens, that individual has reached out to many.   Probably as a dark shadow cast over many friends who have longed to rid of it. When your “friends” complain of complainers, and you don’t want your boyfriend to leave you because you are such a “Negative Nancy,” you just stop communicating.  You stop speaking to everyone.

I haven’t spoken a word for 24 hrs.  I just don’t feel like talking anymore.  What am I going to say?  That the blow from falling down this well has left me unable to feel?  That I’m alive and conscious, but that’s all?  That life sucks right now? Nope.

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