Summary: Jackie, stuck in a hole in the ground by a mysterious kidnapper,
muses about the end of her life.
Disclaimer: I don't own "The Girl in the Box" by Ouida Sebestyen or her character Jackie. Song is "Two-Headed Boy Part 2" by Neutral Milk Hotel.
and in my dreams you're alive and you're crying
as your mouth moves in mine soft and sweet
rings of flowers round your eyes and I love you
for the rest of your life
Dear Anyone,
It's getting so thin in here; the walls are threadbare school fences that are impossible to climb. It's so damp on the floor, and my head fits so perfectly in the drain. I can imagine banging my greasy skull against the drain, the blood pooling and sticking in the overgrown strands of my hair.
There's no food left, and the door at the top of the stairs has not opened yet. I don't think they'd ever find me. I'd be torn skeleton sheet metal. A paper heart bleeding blue lines. I cock my head back to watch the red laser light show on the ceiling that fits perfectly with my favorite Pink Floyd songs.
The man who put me in this box is sauntering around in your world, a menacing monster of lies. He could be a goddamned serial killer. Charles Manson escaped from jail, a Wonderland murderer, Jack the Ripper in his fifth life. He left me enough salty pastries and sweet, heavy water for a few months and now I'm left here with Mr. Drain to starve into an oblivion of nothingness. April and Zach probably gave up the search for me long ago. Why is it so thin in here?
The air feels like it's gravitating toward the door. My lips feel blue and light. The drain, the drain the moon. Do you watch the moon? This typewriter is losing its gas. I can't see these words anymore and the light, the glass, the light is nonexistent. It's getting so thin in here. Lips so blue, so light, head like a balloon without the helium. I cannot rise, cannot escape. I can feel the ribs poking like hammerheads.
I know what I'm going to do. I have a bobby pin in my backpack. Wouldn't it be easy to trace along my wrist, to bang my head open on the concrete floor when the pain in my wrist is too much? I wish you would've found me, but this is my end. Blood and veins wrought open with a goddamned bobby pin. I advise you to stay away from here. I would think my skeleton is rotting. Goodbye, goodbye.
Love until never, Jackie
Disclaimer: I don't own "The Girl in the Box" by Ouida Sebestyen or her character Jackie. Song is "Two-Headed Boy Part 2" by Neutral Milk Hotel.
and in my dreams you're alive and you're crying
as your mouth moves in mine soft and sweet
rings of flowers round your eyes and I love you
for the rest of your life
Dear Anyone,
It's getting so thin in here; the walls are threadbare school fences that are impossible to climb. It's so damp on the floor, and my head fits so perfectly in the drain. I can imagine banging my greasy skull against the drain, the blood pooling and sticking in the overgrown strands of my hair.
There's no food left, and the door at the top of the stairs has not opened yet. I don't think they'd ever find me. I'd be torn skeleton sheet metal. A paper heart bleeding blue lines. I cock my head back to watch the red laser light show on the ceiling that fits perfectly with my favorite Pink Floyd songs.
The man who put me in this box is sauntering around in your world, a menacing monster of lies. He could be a goddamned serial killer. Charles Manson escaped from jail, a Wonderland murderer, Jack the Ripper in his fifth life. He left me enough salty pastries and sweet, heavy water for a few months and now I'm left here with Mr. Drain to starve into an oblivion of nothingness. April and Zach probably gave up the search for me long ago. Why is it so thin in here?
The air feels like it's gravitating toward the door. My lips feel blue and light. The drain, the drain the moon. Do you watch the moon? This typewriter is losing its gas. I can't see these words anymore and the light, the glass, the light is nonexistent. It's getting so thin in here. Lips so blue, so light, head like a balloon without the helium. I cannot rise, cannot escape. I can feel the ribs poking like hammerheads.
I know what I'm going to do. I have a bobby pin in my backpack. Wouldn't it be easy to trace along my wrist, to bang my head open on the concrete floor when the pain in my wrist is too much? I wish you would've found me, but this is my end. Blood and veins wrought open with a goddamned bobby pin. I advise you to stay away from here. I would think my skeleton is rotting. Goodbye, goodbye.
Love until never, Jackie