Hello, my dear faithful readers (aka my mum, maybe a few friends, and that’s about it).
I have no idea when I’m going to finish this story. I don’t even plan its storyline – I just write. It’s been well over five months, and I’ve only got 15 pages, divided into four chapters and a prologue. Maybe I’ll publish online, maybe I won’t. We’ll see (;
Here is an excerpt from the story. It takes place after a mother – Amanda – has hugged her daughter – Elia – to sleep after she woke up, sobbing from a nightmare. Don’t ask me what happens after that, because I have no idea. I haven’t written it yet, and I’m going to sleep now.
She held Elia close to her chest, trying her best to control her tears. Elia listened to sound of her mother’s heartbeat. Thump thump, thump thump, thump thump… She cried herself to sleep as Amanda cradled her.
She never wanted to let go of her daughter.
She opened the underwear drawer, and took her diary out from underneath her bras and panties. She sat down on her bed. She started to write:
I miss her. I miss Elia so much. I look into the eyes of this girl, who looks exactly like my daughter, but I know it isn’t her. Her eyes are empty. They’re not the eyes of my daughter. My bright, chirpy, daughter who never passed on an opportunity to do good. My daughter who aced everything in school. Who was liked by everybody. I know she’s in there somewhere but I can’t find her.
I get so worried. I can’t support her forever. I’m going to get old. I won’t be able to take care of her. I’m going to die. There won’t be anybody to take care of her. Depression is affecting her friendships – the ability to create them, maintain them, enjoy them. She should be out there, living. Not being transferred from hospital to hospital. Depression has taken away so much of her life. She can’t even enjoy school.
Sometimes, my heart aches for her. I just cry and pray, looking forward to better days. If they even exist. Sometimes, I’m angry and resentful – towards her and God. I don’t understand why she can’t be healed. Why God doesn’t heal her. Does she not deserve to be healed? If she has done something bad, anything at all, to warrant this torment, let me be the scapegoat. Let me be the one who suffers. I’ll do anything. I’ll sell my soul, I’ll toil for the rest of my life, I’ll even set myself on fire. Anything. I’ll do anything if it’ll stop my daughter from hurting.