Summer Reading. Bulfinch. Ugh...
You know the answer is always no.
Cyanide.
If you leave a single tablespoon of strong poison out on a table in a room of 50 people, a minimum of 40 people won't make it out.
Not alive, at least.
My poison is enough to bring upon mass chaos, destruction, and death to the streets of Hillwood, and it wouldn't even leave the stoop. It has left me 'antisocial', rude, nasty, confusing, abusive. I hate this feeling of bars and chains restricting the good in me. I know I can be good, I can! Really! I can be a sweet, loving person, why do you think the softest, least spoken girl in the fourth grade is my comrade?
Yet it keeps me protected as I protect it from the outside world. Locked up in coruscating luxuries from my beaten brow and ramshackle of a bank is my yearning love, striving and starving all at once. Because of it I was able to get through faces of disgust, new experiments of neglect, and stand tall in a city that couldn't care less about me. It made me strong and bold enough to step up to what I want. It may have locked up that shy, quiet, but curious little girl the second I heard their laughter, and I got their fear.
All I wanted was their friendship.
His friendship.
All I wanted was their trust
His trust.
All I wanted was their respect.
His respect.
Heck, that's what I still want.
But all I get are their scolds. All I get is their secretive scowls.
All I get was their fear.
His fear.
Oh how bittersweet. But that cliché got old a LONG time ago.
I need to think of a new way to describe this burden in clandestine…
She's still there. That shy, curious, quiet, little girl from preschool, but the nasty, scowling preschool bully is also still there. Together they grow in my subconscious, yearning to come out but I always spoil the nasty girl. It amazes me how I think it will kill me every day, that I'll eventually end it all. It amazes me how it leaves me slaughtered, bloodied and bruised, but just alive and healed enough to make it through the next day. Its physical form never weighs less on my chest and its disembodied form ridicules me to near nothingness. I can survive without it but then I know for sure I'd die if I lose it.
I don't care if I'm being dramatic and Phoebe knows nothing of this pain! This is how I feel!
This Oxymoron.
Pandora Predicament?
No…
This is worse than that. At least she was warned of it and too stupid for self discipline.
No, this is my toxin.
My safety cyanide.
My forst oneshot under 1,000 words. My first story under one thousand! #Not Proud, and i don't even have an internet or social life.
I hope you like that I went a little into my dark side of Helga.