The other day, I read a book. A very good book. This book inspired me to write this story. I don't claim anything, so don't shoot me down, these are Stephanie Meyer's characters. I do stuff with them, but this is my story. Doesn't make sense but w/e.
What about a kettle? What if the spout opened and closed when steam came out, so it would become a mouth, and it could read the newspaper, or give me weather reports or just talk with me? I would buy a kettle that talked in her voice, so I could fall asleep, or maybe buy a whole set of kettles that could sing a song for me, just like we did together.
My first drivers class was two weeks ago. I stayed in the area thinking that it'd be alright. That going past that intersection wouldn't make me sick or guilty. Forks was a small enough place that you didn't have to drive anywhere. Everything you needed was in walking distance and you only needed a car if you wanted to go to Port Angeles or if you really wanted to, Seattle. I passed the written work fine; I didn't have any problems understanding that. There were teenagers there, all trying for their license, wanting that freedom of knowing that if it got too tough, they could just drive away and keep on driving. I didn't need that freedom with her. She was everything I ever wanted. After the written work a man in startling white clothes came up to me and asked me to go over to the car park. I thought it would be alright. That nothing bad was going to happen, my shaking hands should've indicated to me otherwise.
"Get in the car," he told me. That made me tense.
"What?" I asked him.
He opened the car door and told me "Get in the car."
I put a shaking hand on the roof of the car and ducked in, sitting in the driver's seat. He got in the other side and closed the door. That made me anxious. I tightened my grip on the steering wheel until it started to hurt, even then not letting up.
"Turn the engine on," he told me. I clenched my hands on the wheel even more.
"Turn the engine on," he told me. I did not move.
"Can I ask you something?" I turned to him and said,
"'Can I ask you something' is asking me something.
"Do you have dreams of getting your license?"
"Yes" I told him, even though the thought of starting the car made me freeze up.
He said, "Do you want to know how a walking person becomes a driving person?"
"Tell me," even though I wasn't sure I wanted to know.
"A walking person becomes a driving person by starting the engine," he told me.
"That's fascinating."
"Start the engine," he said. I didn't. "Then why are you here?"
I turned to him, "It's for -." My last drivers class was two weeks ago.
There was a lot of stuff that made me panicky nowadays, like roads, rain, suspension bridges, faulty brakes, scaffolding, germs, wheels, pavements, tyres, trucks, drunks, alcohol, fireworks, cars, traffic, and open roads, things out of place, vermin, elevators, and trains. I spent a lot of my time walking to places. Running to places. Cycling to places. I didn't like cars. Carlisle had to use a sedative to even get me in the car, and for some reason, I didn't do airplanes either. I needed a fresh start, however, and so there I stood outside the apartment complex. It was modern and fairly pricey, in New York and far away from where it happened.