(a/n. Hey guys this is my first story. I made this up. None of it is true but please review and tell me if I should go on I would love to be a writer and get this published someday, but if it's not good enough, tell me.)

Sarah Loves you, you know.

Sarah loves you, you know.

I have always thought there was something beautiful about a clean, white sheet of paper. I look at it now, and look at the words I have written. It makes me want to erase it all, and get it back to its pure state, as it was before. But I cannot do that. I daren't do it.
As I look around this room, I feel such loathing. I'm sitting on this horrid bathroom tile that is literally caked with grime. The ugly wallpaper is peeling and the moldy wall is peeking out as if to taunt me.

"This is you", it screams to me, "You are no better than moldy wall; only there because you need to be. No one wants to fix you up and no one cares enough to fix you up."
I do not know if I need to be "fixed up", but I am often described that way. But I am more complicated than I seem.

I suppose that…well, I should start from the beginning, like most stories do. Well, where shall I begin? Oh yes. My name is Sarah Spindle and I was born during the summer of 1964; a great time…as I was told. I never really experienced it since I was born smack dab in the middle.

Oh my word, I always tend to get off from the subject of things. Where was I? Oh yes.
My name is Sarah Spindle, I was born July, 2, 1964, and I have killed someone.
I know what you think of me right about now, but before you form any rash judgments, you must first know the circumstances. Ah circumstances.

I do love them, really. Under the circumstances, everything changes. Under the circumstances, it is ok to do things not normally done. Under the circumstances, it is okay to break the rules. Under the circumstances, it is even okay to commit murder.

Maybe you disagree, maybe you do not. But you do not even know me so is it okay to even make a thought of me yet? I think not.

Maybe you think I'm a loony and should be locked up. I may agree with you on that because sometimes I DO feel crazy. I believe in my heart that I am not, but sometimes it is hard to tell.

I wonder, even, if the loony's know they are loony. Maybe they think they are normal. Everyone thinks they are normal. But I think that maybe everyone is a little crazy themselves.
Oh geez.. Look how I skip around subjects. I'm a horrible writer. Well…back to the story.
I guess you could say it started from the very day I was born; Or, more likely, when I turned five.