New story idea! Anyone ever read The Catcher in the Rye? Well, this story is inspired by that one. I've never read the whole thing, but I pretty much know the story. So this story is based on that. :3

It's going to be like...a diary type thing. Think of A Perks of Being a Wallflower. Kind of like that, but with the story mixed in as well.

I think I'll be proud of this. :3

You know the drill. ;D Sadness is how I role.

The Catcher in the Rye

"...What I have to do, I have to catch everybody if they start to go over the cliff—I mean if they're running and they don't look where they're going I have to come out from somewhere and catch them. That's all I'd do all day. I'd just be the catcher in the rye and all..."

--Holden Caulfield
from The Catcher in the Rye

Prolouge
Winter

April 20th

You do not know me. And I do not know you. But before you throw this letter away, please let me tell you why I'm writing to you. It's not a prank. It's not anything funny. It's all serious. Which is why I'm asking you to hear me out.

I won't tell you my name until later. Probably in my last letter. And I do not know yours. You're just a randomly selected address far from where I am. You must think I'm crazy, and yes, this is true. I believe I am crazy. But after what I've been through, you would be too.

I'm writing to you because...well, because no one else will listen. I'm alone in the world. I'm sitting right now in an aslym because of what I've done. But my mind isn't gone. Everything else is. I have nothing to live for.

Maybe because you don't know me, I think you'll listen. Or maybe just because I'm lonely, and have to pretend someone is listening. Because if I have to believe no one is listening, no one is there, I'll die.

All of my life, I've lived off attention, off people who admired me, wanted to be me. Now, no one wants to be around me. People avoid me. And they've finally stuck me here, a place where I honestly cannot get away. I'm trapped on all sides. Not only by the white washed walls of this ayslum, but by myself.

So please, just listen. Give me something to live for. Don't send this back, don't convince me that there's no on there.

'Cause really, I don't have anything left. This is it.

Annon.


It's dark. Cold. Midnight has come and gone. The moon is hidden behind a vast cover of clouds. Snow hides the grass. The roads are quiet. White. Everything's still. Silent. A peaceful kind of night. One that makes the darkness seem less scary, makes children doubt the presence of monsters in the long shadows.

There's a form lying in the grass near the road. The wind blows softly, ruffling the fur on his forehead. Snow begins to fall again. It's so quiet you can hear the snowflakes hit the snow. The figure doesn't stir, doesn't move. It snows harder. A car is approaching. The silence is broken. The world has come alive again as it slowly passes. Still, the figure is still.

There are footsteps. Again, silence is broken. The snow crunches beneath his shoes. His feet are a blur as he runs. His breath fly's behind him in a fog, rising only a second before its gone. His eyes are frantic, his breath ragged, his feet fast, but not fast enough.

He almost doesn't see the figure through the snow. He nearly trips over the body, and skids to a stop just before impact. His green eyes stare into blue. His breath suddenly stops rising in fog. For a moment, they both seemed to have died. His wide green eyes match the raised blue ones. The wind lifts his fur as he falls to his knees, continuing to stare.

Lifeless blue eyes stare at him. Mouth agape, foam still dripping, body crumbled and twisted. He reachs out; cold. Too cold. Too cold. Ice cold. The snow is nearly a blizzard now. Silence.

He breaths raggedly, finally, fog rising from his mouth, disappearing. Eyes sting from cold tears. Too cold. Way too cold.

His head falls into his hands. He wraps around himself, crying softly, breaking the silence with his quiet sniffles.

A car approaches. It stops at the edge of the road. Headlights pour down on the two forms. The door opens. Too late. Too late.

He's pulled away. He doesn't resist. It's over. All over.

The body is moved, covered by a blanket. Placed in the backseat next to him.

It's warm. Toasty. Comfortable.

But he still feels cold, so cold. He wraps his hands around his legs, shivering.

The car drives away, and its silent once more.

End of Chapter