Yea's Rudeness: A Narrative Fiction

She daydreamed in the only empty space available she could find with no sense of motivation or depth within her thoughts. Her chin rested on her knees and her lengthy, ashen, locks spilled over her shoulders. To her it wasn't trash, it was memories she held on to. It reminded her of the good ol' times. She knew she was hoarding but, she didn't care. She needed something to let her know her life wasn't completely meaningless, even though she believed otherwise. Her small hands reached for any and every item in sight, she held on to them as if they were what kept her alive. They were all she had left. It got to the point where if there wasn't an item the event didn't happen. It was out of control, but she was okay with that. She could live with

It showed the narrators attempt to have normalcy and sanity during the time of being locked away. Her husband banned her from spending anytime doing anything active, but to her it’s a way to release her mind. When the women is caught writing in her notebook she has it taken away, but soon finds a way to sneak behind her husband’s back and secretly write. Too many people, writing can be therapeutic in which it allows them to ease feelings of emotional pain. During the time in 1892, women kept their thoughts to themselves, afraid that if they allowed someone else to know, that they would face “social discrimination”. When the notebook was taken away from the women, this made her have to tuck away her thoughts and it eventually led to

“One week,” Julia wrote in her journal, “it’s been one week since I’ve seen another human being.” Prior to the wars and conflicts that ripped her life to shreds, Julia had kept her journal as a log of her thoughts. Now the journal was the only thing keeping her sane. Julia tried to cling to anything that could remind her of the normalcy she used to know, but the journal was the only thing that truly still felt safe.

I really need to clean this house, it’s so dusty. Bending down to fix the bookshelf, I noticed that it was unorganised. “Goodness gracious, it’s such a mess!” I thought to myself on why I haven’t cleaned this part of the house. As I took out all the books, I noticed a very familiar book. It was a worn out journal with the cover slightly ripped, it was the a dark shade of purple. My eyes widening realizing what this journal was. Immediately I plopped down, turning to the pages as I read.

Everything was taken from Lyla, her house, car, luxury because of loans and her irresponsibility. She stopped going to school and doing concerts. Her day and night were spent in search of the person who killed her parents. As usual, she went to the restaurant to eat a hamburger and discuss the issue but Sally wasn’t there. So she went to sally’s house, her guard opened the gate and told that she can wait inside, sally will be there in an hour. So, lyla sat there because she had to ask if she can help in finding the girl. As they were best friends so she went into her bedroom and sat in bed. She suddenly felt something under the pillow. It was sally’s journal. At first, lyla hesitated, but then she decided to read it, after all they are best friends and share everything. On the front page it was printed with bold marker:

I gripped the over-annotated, photocopied packet in my eager fingers so that my sweaty fingers made print marks on the black speckled page. And I read. I cried. And my dream changed.

I hold the paper in my hands. It’s crumpling under my grip, but in it I get to live in the footsteps of others. My old dress is wrinkled and torn much like the paper, but I can’t spare the money on a new one. As much as I try to focus on the crinkled piece of paper with scrawly handwriting, I can’t. I just can’t. Tears run down my face and I wipe them away. It has been awhile since I have cried, so long in fact that I was afraid that there was something wrong with me. I push myself up from the old oak I sit at the base of. There’s no use in dwelling in what I can’t change. I fold the paper back in my dress pocket and walk into the field. I used to think there was beauty in the way that the grass grows in the street; standing low next to the

An idea was tracing through the back of her mind, and so she thought to try and best and quickly she could manifest how she felt. Several minutes minutes of failure of preforming such mental acrobatics propelled Katie towards the decisive choice of going to her closet. As she opened the mirror door, Katie gazed into her own ocean green eyes, and revealing a bounty of tired clothing nobody really wore. Her slender arm reached a slender hand to grasp an engraved brown leather booklet.

My knuckles turn white from holding the diary so tightly. Every inch of my body stings and yearns at that thought of my family. My love and my blood, now just are three of the million other fallen ones, who now rest in permanent slumbers.

I don’t want to go back there! It’s full of phonies!” then I stormed upstairs into the attic. I felt so depressed, I just want to talk to Phoebe. There were a lot of things that I left in the attic before I was sent to boarding school so I figured that I’d go through it. I opened the boxes to find, papers, clothes, magazines, and Allie’s baseball mitt. The mitt was still the same color brown but in the inside, the poems that Allie wrote were starting to fade. The words on the inside were barely there anymore all that was left were a few letters here and there. I couldn’t remember any of the poems. I just started to cry and scream out loud out of nowhere and I could not stop. I felt like my insides were being ripped out of me. My body was numb when Phoebe came home and heard me upstairs. I don’t want her to see me like

"Maria please come out of your room and eat." I yelled from the living room

My hand reached for my suitcase, intending to take out my sketchbook. The leather bound book was a comforting thing, the turmoil of anxiety in me calmed as my fingers skimmed across the soft cover. It had been with me through all of this; it still is now. This book was not a traitor, not like Charles, not like Oswald.

Scared, I hid the envelope. He knew that I had it! He can shoot me, but I had to know. I just had to know who was barbaric enough to kill my mother. This envelope could have all the answers, but what if the truth was just to much to bear. It was to late now, all I have to do now is open it. I had no clue what was in it, but now I would finally know. All of the questions that have been racing in my head since the day she left. All of the lonely nights, and the nights filled with tears. I will finally know why, and ll it’ll take is a slide of my finger.

Relate to self and audience: I love story. Matter of facts, I would love to get to know each of you and listen to your personal stories. Especially, I enjoy listening to struggles-related stories. Every day, each of us walks to class and acts “normal”, though we might carry something deep inside. Something that is too dark which we cannot let others know. From time to time, we keep carrying that wound. It hurts us every now and then, but we say nothing.

A fresh start. A new life. A second chance to get it right. That’s all I had wanted for years, and now I finally had one. That was, if I didn’t mess it up by making a fool of myself in one way or another, or finding another reason to want to die. And I asked myself again today as I stood out on the tiny balcony of my dorm room overlooking campus. I closed my eyes and breathed slowly, I could almost feel it, everything that I wanted to leave behind for so long, all the demons holding me back, drifting out of my brain, away with the cool gusts of wind that swept through my hair. The past that everybody seemed to be aware of, even when buried deep inside me, the way it would seep out made people would look at me different; I hated it, I despised it, I wanted nothing to do with that poor, troubled girl who had lost everything, now it was all being left behind. I wanted to be somebody completely different, and now I had the chance. But when I opened my eyes it all came rushing back, in waves, floods, tsunami tides, it was all too familiar standing on that ledge overlooking school grounds and wishing it would all float away. Just wishing I could float away in the crisp autumn breeze that swept across the sky in graceful gusts. So I stepped inside quickly and shut the door, reminded myself that it was all changing, and today was the day, it was time to get ready, and get