Writer
Fang on his blog
Fang sighed. Last time he had updated his blog, It had been with the hope that the dangerous parts of his life were behind him. That despite feeling like the other part of the shoe would drop, it just wouldn't, and he could be safe and go to school like a normal kid. Live a normal life. Kiss a girl. Worry about homework instead of where to sleep and how they would eat.
He wanted to write it all out. Put the past in the past where it belongs. Remember the good bits among the bad.
Writing felt good, even if posting was kind of scary.
It had been healing. And, the messages from his followers had been nice too. Fame was kind of cool.
Maybe he does want to do this. Maybe he could be a traveling writer, and cover events, maybe even bring awareness.
But of course not.
When life kicks, it aims for the teeth.
He should have known better. Or maybe he had, and hadn't wanted to acknowledge it.
Nevertheless, his feelings about writing on his blog have changed with circumstance.
But, he looks at the comments. At the interest People had shown, caring about him, and his life. And he finds, that maybe he still wants to do it anyways.
A little for him, and a lot for himself.
Even if they don't care, he does.
And this is his life. His story!
He wants to control the narrative this time, and that means he can not let someone else write it about him. Not in a report, or an essay, or as a subject.
No, he has to write this himself.