Categories > Original > Drama0 Reviews
The pencil holds it's own story.
It's entered my brain, wormed its way to my soul. It's making me think crazy, as if a pill has gotten into my system, a pill that lets loose its deadly little babies on contact. Maybe it is a pill, I've no idea how they keep getting here, keep getting these things, these things here into my system, can you feel them, god, can you feel them?
He stopped then, eyes looking upwards as he heard the sound of helicopters fly by, and he instinctively ducked underneath the scrap of metal and tin that he was using for his hideout for today, his hideaway from the rain and water that seemed to never end, and the ever seeking helicopters. Going back to the paper in his hand, he moved it away as a little drop of rain went to hurt it.
It began like before, the helicopters, those damn helicopters, making me go crazy man, think crazy, act crazy, am I the only one left, oh man, don't let me be the only one left. I don't think I could take it, I need others, there should b others, please let there be others, oh god, is there even a god, it's all a confused mess in my head, please help me, someone help me, someone please help me!
He covered his face with a cloak, something forgotten in this day and age, and huddled under his shade, setting the pencil to the side, careful of its point, and covering the paper with his body. He moved back more, and brought out a disposable water proof kit, set to make a fire to help his chilled bones, fingers cold in their grasp.
"Fuck this," he murmured, and set the kit underneath him again, using it as a makeshift table for his piece of paper, and he picked up the pencil to write again, biting at the top again before he wrote, not caring of the mistakes or the misspellings.
I want to go home, I want to go home, I want out of this place, I miss her, I miss her and him, together, they were so nice together, why can't things be like they were before, please oh pleas I just want to go home, but not really, that home is down in the dumps and I can't go back there, it was no help there, please, please must left me go home and be done with this mess. I just want to be done with this mess, to go home and be like things were before, oh god, just please let me do this, please please, oh god do please let me.
He stopped again suddenly, the whirring sound made by planes overhead making him stop again, and then he pounded is head, his eyes watering with tears as the sound stirred up memories for him, memories that he would rather forget. Sighing, he rubbed at his head; before the pencil stirred again in his hand, and he bent down, nose to paper almost, as the words poured out yet again.
I miss her so much, that's what this is, I miss her and can't do anything about it, it's awful how I could miss someone, isn't it awful, did you know that it's illegal still and still I want her so much....this is horrible, I can't stop the crying, the tears won't stop, the books won't stop, the writing won't stop, not the writing that I want but the writing no one wants to read, I want to stop crying, I love her, I love her, I want the crying to stop, make it stop, make it stop!
This wasn't him saying these things damn it! The man stood up, black suit wet to the touch, as he walked away from the puddle of stream, pad and pencil laying beside the med kit, before he went back again, compelled by some unseen force to see what else lay within the pencil, or perhaps it was the paper's doing. Whatever it was, it made him kneel down again, kneels already muddy, and take the pencil in one hand, the paper in another, and as he chewed on the tip of the pencil for a fifth time, before starting over again.
My name is Elizabeth. My story is timeless and ageless, thought the characters may have changed a bit. I was in love with another, and now that that other is dead, I see no point in living my life, so my story will have to be resigned to this pencil, which stores all of my thoughts, feelings and emotions. I loved and have lost; I have lived and I have died. You, the holder of this pencil, hold a story in your hands-my story. It is not a good one, nor one worth hearing, but it is my story and I'll be damned if it does not at least get told to someone.