This is something put together, going nowhere, and would love any directional input to help further the story. Can’t think of ways to expand it, but hope you like it.
I could still hear the rain outside and the sound of footsteps on hard tiled floorboards. Not much of what happened yesterday remained intact in my head but l knew that if l wanted to last l needed a lot more than answers. What remained of my clothing where pieces of bootleg jeans, V-neck tee and hoodie? There were tears and on my cheeks and my nose was runny. There were blood stains on my clothes, but the blood wasn’t mine.
I look everywhere and still no cuts or bruises that could explain the amount of blood on me. This happened once before. While my family lived down by the river cottage. The place had been swarming with the cops when l had been found after being missing for a week. People thought l was cursed and that nothing good could come of being anywhere near me. My parents moved so l could start afresh and to make some friends.
But a couple of days ago, Sarah started acting weird and looking at me funny. When we were with the others she brought up what had happened to me before and l was suddenly a witch. Someone who didn’t have the right to live among the living. Someone who deserved to die.
I woke up feeling sore in places God doesn’t even want to discuss unless he had a therapist for the next couple of centuries. The move had taken a lot out of everyone and moving the furniture had left everyone feeling like crap. Everything was hazy from the night before, but l knew l’d taken sleeping pills so l could sleep undisturbed. What I didn’t get was how l’d gotten from my bedroom to the backdoor and why most of my clothing was missing.
I’ve been like this since forever, day mares weren’t rare in my family, because my mother suffered from them as a kid and into her early teens. She’d dealt with them by visiting a therapist every two days for the rest of high school and had found out later that because she had forgotten about them they stopped happening. The doctor thought I was the same. Except where my mother a type A and I was a type Z. a type A is someone bullied who starts making up things about what happened to them when they hurt themselves. A type Z is someone who is an exception from society and spends most of their time asleep and dreaming of what it would be like to be popular.
Translation: everyone thought I was insane for wanting that kind of life and didn’t get that mum’s therapist was clinically insane and spends most days high than even drug addicts. Afterall, he can prescribe drugs. What’s stopping him from doing it to himself.