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Post by Kitty on Jun 30, 2006 1:14:25 GMT -5
On top of a rather organized dresser sits a very plain, white covered journal. The book has been carefully wrapped in a white paper book cover so that whatever tacky design it originally held is completely unnoticeable. Guadalupe likes this kind of order. Scrawled across the top of the book, in an almost overly elegant, cursive script, are the words, “After the Rebellion”. Guadalupe was horrified when she titled her journal this. It was too dramatic and showy, but she could think of nothing better.
The pages are filled with almost black paper. The paper is simple and white, clean of any sorts of designs. The only thing marring the whiteness of the pages are the straight, closely spaced, black lines. The pages at the beginning are filled with the same tidy script that adorns the front. Obviously someone spent a lot of time teaching Guadalupe how to write. The letters are almost flawless.
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Post by Kitty on Jun 30, 2006 1:16:09 GMT -5
My dad used to make me keep a journal. I remember hating it so much. Still, I would do anything that man said, and I kept his journal. It was pink with a lovely, elegant writing that said something really uninteresting. I cannot remember what the book said. Still, I remember the pages. They were perfectly white, like the towels at hotels, clean, with a small flower emblem in the upper right-hand corner. I can remember the pages so clearly. It amazes me what one remembers that is superfluous, but the important things manage to leak out. I can hardly remember that my father has green eyes. How could I forget that? I always wanted green eyes.
The journal was to help my speech writing; he said. It was supposed to improve my language skills and handwriting. The only thing it did was make me hate the poor book. He let me stop when I was ten. I think I threatened to run away. He should have known I would not survive very long on the streets by myself.
I vowed never to write in a journal again. Here I am, writing in a journal, rambling on about useless and mundane things. I am pathetic. He would never be able to forgive what a failure I have become. I slowly think my sanity is slipping away from me every day like water seeping through a hole in a pipe. I can feel the puddle forming under my feet. I even know what is wrong, and what the leak is, but I cannot pinpoint it. It's just too small. I am afraid that every day I live I am moving closer to breaking down again. I can't have another episode like that. There are no scientist to keep me from plunging myself into the realms of death this time. No doctor acting as a grief coach to feed me enough lines to prevent my untimely departure. No, if it happens again, I am afraid I will not be able to allow myself to live. Guadalupe Harrison is hardly able to suppress the part of her that is still crazy with what she did. No one can live very long with the grief and guilt I have to carry. I am no amazing exception.
As if to mock me, they know! The residents, they know my some twisted, unreal version of my story. There is always one person who knows it in a group of people. When I meet people there is always a moment where I have to wonder if they will mock me with words of my unreal success, false telling of how I became no better than a mass murderer. I wish, instead, I could set the story straight. I wish I could express the grotesque reality of my deeds, but I cannot bare it. I am afraid if I think too hard upon all the blood and the bodies, that I will crack. I dream about it, though, sometimes multiple nights in a row. She haunts me mostly, Crissy, her perfectly formed features and gold hair. She haunts me with the trust inscribed in her quickly clouding blue eyes, her blood on the ground, her hand, and her slowing breath. What good is it to dream. I wish I could stay awake forever.
I suppose I could set the story straight to the people in the House. It would not be too hard. I could get them all to be somewhere at the same time, and I could force the belief into them. I could make them know the truth. It would actually be so easy. There are enough residents it would be much like my speeches at Sunrise. I might no even feel it. I did not then. Something is stopping me, and I can't explain it. It is almost like there is still a shred of my own dignity and pride keeping me from it. That, or it is shame, or maybe all of those are the same thing. I can't relay my story because I do not want to be cast out, I do not want anyone to dislike me, I do not want to be some sort of murderous pariah. It is so shameful that I hold on. I should tell, but it is so much easier being a heroic martyr than a manipulative killer. What can I say? I am a manipulator, and manipulators always take the easy road out.
There are some positive things, though. Dahlia is a positive thing. A new roommate might help take my mind off what I did. I can talk to her about stupid, irrelevant things, and I can forget for a short time what person I am. I need someone to talk to so badly. The best part is that she doesn't know. She has never heard of me. She was not even created in a lab. The stories about anything heroic about my Rebellion are not known to her. I will never have to explain the story, I will not have to set her straight, and she will never know I am personally responsible for the deaths of over sixty of my peers. She never has to. I need that person to talk to.
We are going shopping tomorrow. It will be interesting for sure. I really don't shop well, but I figure it is something we can both relate to. It will be fun, all the same, even if all the clothes look odd on my awkward form. You would think the daughter of a politician would be graceful, elegant and beautiful, and I am not. Not that what I look like matters much. History does not remember faces.
I made it to a whole three pages. I did not think it was plausible. Dad would be so impressed with the amount of writing I have done. Thank God he is not hear to read what I have to say.
((Oh, dear, that was fun. I do think I was a bit dramatic, but it was fun, and it was fun, and I don't care. ))
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