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Want to try to make one or see what other people came up with?! Every story will participate in The Doll Palace ratings. Good stories will be awarded with Dollpoints.
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All created stories have to follow . We do not allow any sexually related material. The Doll Palace will be enforcing this rule and completely blocking access to the accounts that disregard our policy and create sexually oriented stories.
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Hi, my name is Karina
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 | This |
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 5 with 4 vote(s)
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| Created: 2009-01-10 17:40:29 |
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Entry One.
This. This is the last thing I will ever write. This is the last time I will pick up a pen and scribble in a journal. This is the last time I'll be even a little bit free.
Why? Why, you ask? Why should I tell you? You're nothing but a figment of my imagination, nothing but an invented audience I've conjured up within my mind to hear my last words.
I don't think I'll tell you anything.
Hate,
Karina.
---
Entry two.
I guess it doesn't matter, much, does it. I'll tell. Not all of it, of course. Simply a few pieces.
Dessert today was a dried and shriveled apple. The cold chain holding me to the wall is heavy. I think I can hear it whispering to me at night. It sounds like a frozen snake. She tells me, softly, that I am going to die.
She's right.
Hate,
Karina.
---
Entry three.
If you have any brains at all, my imaginary reader, you would have guessed I was in prison.
As I should be. I deserve it.
The chain still whispers.
Hate,
Karina.
---
Entry four.
It wasn't my fault. I don't belong here.
It's all his fault.
It's his fault for caring about me, protecting me, making me feel loved, and then vanishing.
Just like that.
---
Entry five.
I ran away from home when I was eight. Anyone would have. From a home where there was no food, aside for rare scraps, from a home where cursing and slaps were the only attention a child would ever receive, from a home where nobody cared. I left my sister behind. She was five. And so small and beautiful. Her name was Katy.
The river looked so deep. I was frightened. But wouldn't you be? Wouldn't you be scared if you were about to jump, to end everything?
He saved me. He pulled me from the water, blew air into my choking lungs, gave me a threadbare overcoat to replace my soaking clothes. He bandaged the cuts as well as he could, stole medicine for my rising fever. I was terrified. Not of him, but of how I would be cast out, thrown away, as soon as I recovered. I resisted the medicine, delirious to the state of preferring death and illness to leaving.
But of course I finally healed. And I wasn't sent away.
He was the first person who cared about me.
He was the first person to tell me everything was alright.
He was the first person who I loved.
And, of course, he died.
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Entry six.
I'm going to die too. Everyone dies. But I will die sooner than most. I've been sentenced to death.
I'm not afraid.
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Entry seven.
I told you I wasn't afraid.
I was lying.
He died. I suppose I had always known he would. From the time when he found me, he'd been sick. I'd seen him coughing, seen the red stains on the hankerchiefs he pressed to his lips to prevent the illness from escaping. I'd seen him burn from the fever, drying out from within until he was a brittle husk with only the slightest spark of life.
I hated him so much for it.
I felt betrayed, abandoned. I was only ten. I didn't understand that he had no control over it, was just as helpless as I.
You must think I'm horrible.
I don't care.
You don't exist, anyway.
---
Entry eight.
Ten more days until I die. It will be my nineteenth birthday.
The first thing I'll do if I get to the afterlife will be finding him.
Then I'll punch him in his big fat lying face.
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Entry nine.
He was just fifteen. I'm only eighteen now. It's so strange to be older.
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Entry ten.
You want to know my crime.
I'll tell you, if only to pass the time.
After he betrayed me, after he left me with nothing but a cold body stained with blood and bile, I had no idea what to do.
Don't look at me like that. I wasn't stupid. I knew I had to find someway to earn food.
For a while I scavenged, stole, and snuck bits and pieces of life away. This worked alright. But it was never enough. Three weeks after my eleventh birthday, one year after died, I found a new protector. A gang.
They smuggled everything from drugs to rugs. They had no hearts, no souls. They were the bitter dregs of society.
I loved them.
The leader had a soft spot for me, apparently. I still find it amazing that such a horrible person would always make sure I had enough to eat and a warm place to sleep at night. He gave me a piece of the sweetest strawberry candy once. His street name was Blade, but he let me call him brother when we were alone.
I was so horribly idiotic to think it could last.
My "brother" was twenty when he was shot. I was thirteen.
I didn't cry.
Not one tear.
I stayed with the gang. You don't desert just because there's a new leader.
As I grew older, I moved up in ranks, until I was second in command. I might have become leader someday, if I wasn't going to die in a week and a day.
The cops caught me. I had just killed an enemy of ours. It was my first, and only, kill. I will always remember to the moment of my own death the feel of the slippery blood beneath my pale hands as I searched the body for a purse. So many emotions were going through me. Revulsion. Pride. Euphoria. Pain. Regret.
And then I was caught.
I shouldn't have written all of that. Now my hands ache, and there's no one to breathe warm comfort on to them.
I hate you, my imaginary reader.
I wish you were dying too, alone in the cold damp of a cell with no one but a horrible nosy audience who doesn't even exist for company.
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Entry eleven.
In one week I die.
I'm glad for it.
The chains are whispering.
They tell me it's my fault. That I'm horrible.
They're right.
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Entry twelve.
I don't want to die. I want to live. I want to draw and write and sing and be held and hold others. I want to eat strawberry candy. I want to be loved.
I don't hate you.
Please forgive me.
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Entry thirteen.
There's blood on my hands and I can't get it off it's red and slippery and it won't rub off please help me.
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Entry fourteen.
I did something stupid. I tried to bite through my metal chains. Now my mouth is red and bleeding. I must be going insane.
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Entry fifteen.
His name was Ferrel. I loved him. And he deserted me.
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entry sixteen.
im so afraid. i cant write good anymore. my hands keep shaking and the chains are too heavy so i will have to write badly.
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seventeen.
please help me someone. i dont want to die. tomorow is the day.
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eigtien.
im sorry. ples forgif me mother. i dint mean to. ples dont hit me anemor.
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Nineteen.
They let me hold the book before I die. I am allowed to write one last entry.
I'm not afraid anymore. It's too late for that.
The sky is the brightest blue I have ever seen.
Please, my imaginary audience.
Please forgive me.
If Katy is still alive, tell her I love her. Tell her I'm sorry I left her alone in the house. Tell her not to pity me.
This.
This is the last thing I ever wrote.
Thank you for reading.
Love,
Karina.
END.
AN: I offer my apologies for this morbid junk. If anyone is offended, please tell me.
--Aeroo |
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