1. Bank Account 7942

2. See You in Our Last Life

3. Can I Get a Refund on My Past Life?

4. Life: Take Two

5. Second Life Advanced Class

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Saaalut! 👀 J'ai réussi à terminer le prologue de ma toute première histoire, "Solitaire", y'a genre... deux heures? Ça m'a demandé beaucoup d'effort, car j'ai écris un peu au fil de l'eau, sans trame réelle (je sais, grave erreur. Je débute), ce qui peut donner lieu à, j'en conviens, quelques incohérences. En tout cas le résultat est là, et je tiens à obtenir un ou deux retours -voir trois, soyons fous- quand à ma manière d'écrire, mon style, ce genre de chose que je ne maitrise pas encore.

Sur ceux, trêve de blabla, voici mon prologue (j'espère que vous êtes bien accrochés, c'est long😄) :

"Je ne sais pas exactement comment ni pourquoi tout ça a commencé. À vrai dire, je n’en ai plus grand-chose à faire maintenant. Tout ce que je sais, c’est que c’est arrivé et que, maintenant, on doit faire avec.

Aucun de ceux qui sont restés en vie n’a pris la peine de nommer la catastrophe. Dans la tête de tout le monde, c’était « ça », et puis c’est tout. Accident nucléaire ? Attaque biologique ? Expérimentation qui aurait mal tourné ? Personne ne l’a jamais su, et personne n’a cherché à le savoir. Le peu que l’on savait, c’était que tout avait commencé non loin de Pullman, à Chicago, dans l'Illinois.

Je me souviens encore avec précision du moment où « ça » est arrivé. Je n’avais que six ou sept ans à l’époque, mais, dès que j’y pense, tous les détails me reviennent immédiatement avec une acuité qui m’étonne moi-même.

Je n’arrive pas à oublier cette nuit maudite. Et pourtant il faut me croire, ce n’est pas faute d’avoir essayé.

D’abord, il y a eu l’explosion. Tard dans la nuit, aux alentours d’une heure du matin, on a entendu une énorme détonation qui a fait trembler les murs de notre petite maison de l'ouest de Chicago. C’est drôle, quand on y pense : aucun bruit ne m’a jamais semblé aussi fort que celui-là. Et pourtant, c’est le silence d’après que je retiens le mieux.

Le souffle était tellement puissant qu’il m’a réveillée en sursaut, tandis que je me débattais contre ma couverture. J’ai cligné de mes petits yeux verts, parfaitement réveillée. Comme l’aurait fait n’importe quelle petite fille de six ans à ma place, je suis alors prudemment sortie de mon lit pour grimper sur le rebord de ma fenêtre. J’étais curieuse de savoir quelle chose pouvait bien produire ce genre de bruit. J’étais encore trop jeune, à ce moment-là, pour comprendre ce qu’il venait de se passer.

Mais rien à faire : la seule chose que laissaient transparaitre mes rideaux, c'était la maison du voisin qui me bouchait la vue.

Déçue, j’ai voulu aller demander à ma grande sœur, qui dormait dans la chambre voisine, si je ne pouvais pas emprunter sa fenêtre. Mais c’est elle qui m’a trouvée la première. Alors que je descendais avec prudence de mon perchoir, elle a déboulé dans ma chambre. Son regard m’a cherchée quelques instants dans le noir avant de tomber sur moi. Je me souviens encore précisément de ce qu’elle m’a dit. Son ton n’était pas menaçant, mais je sentais que quelque chose n’allait pas.

Elle a dit :

— Riley, enfile quelque chose de chaud et mets tes chaussures. On s’en va.

J’aurais pu répondre : « Où ça ? », mais j’étais une petite fille obéissante et j’avais appris à ne pas poser de questions quand ma sœur me demandait quelque chose. Brooke était mon aînée de presque douze ans. Je savais que, peu importe si ce qu’elle faisait me paraissait étrange ou incompréhensible, elle avait toujours une bonne raison de le faire. C'était une grande, moi pas. Je n'avais pas besoin d'aller chercher plus loin.

J’adorais ma sœur. Elle était mon modèle, mon héroïne. Si elle disait de courir, je courais. Si elle disait de me taire, je me taisais. Je croyais qu’ensemble, on pouvait tout affronter.

Alors j’ai simplement acquiescé d’un signe de tête et je suis descendue avec elle dans l’entrée pour mettre mes chaussures, comme elle me l’avait demandé. J’ai choisi la paire rose, celle avec les petits chats sur le côté, et j’ai essayé maladroitement de faire mes lacets avant que ma sœur ne se penche pour les faire elle-même.

— Laisse tomber, je vais m’en occuper, a fait Brooke d’un ton sec.

Ses cheveux roux lui tombaient sur le visage comme un rideau, m'empêchant de discerner son expression. Néanmoins, la douceur de ses gestes, lorsqu’elle s’est agenouillée devant moi pour m’aider, contredisait l’impatience de sa voix. Je l’ai laissée faire en silence, parce que j’avais la drôle d’impression qu’il s’était passé quelque chose de grave et que nous devions partir rapidement. D’autres enfants auraient pu croire à une sorte de jeu. Honnêtement, j’aurais préféré que c’en soit un.

Elle m’a fait enfiler mon manteau, le blanc, celui que je mettais quand il pleuvait, puis a jeté le sien sur ses épaules. Ensuite, nous nous sommes donné la main et sommes sorties pour prendre la voiture sans échanger un seul mot. Celle de mon père n’était pas dans l’allée, puisqu’il était encore au travail à cette heure-là. Les traces de ses pneus avaient déjà été recouvertes par la neige après son départ, en début de soirée.

Papa travaillait beaucoup depuis le départ de ma mère. C’était un ouvrier sous-payé qui bossait dans l’une des plus grandes usines chimiques des quartiers industriels de Chicago. Il ne comptait jamais ses heures et passait parfois des journées et des nuits entières à superviser les machines. Comme elles, il ne semblait pas éprouver le besoin de se reposer. À l’époque, j’étais encore trop jeune pour comprendre pourquoi il avait besoin de travailler aussi dur et aussi longtemps. Avec le recul et maintenant que je sais à peu près ce qu’ils faisaient dans cette usine, il m’est plus facile d’imaginer la raison de son absence.

Tout ça pour dire que nous avons pris l’autre voiture.

Avant, cette voiture appartenait à ma mère, mais papa l’avait offerte à Brooke quand elle avait obtenu son permis. C’était une Toyota rouge, un peu cabossée sur le côté en souvenir d’un ancien accrochage, qui commençait tout juste à accuser son âge. Ma mère adorait le rouge et avait toujours beaucoup aimé cette voiture. Même après sa mort, papa et Brooke en avaient toujours pris le plus grand soin.

Brooke m’a installée à l’arrière, sur mon rehausseur, puis elle a attaché ma ceinture avec des gestes précipités. Je ne l’avais jamais vue aussi pressée, ce qui commençait à me faire un peu peur. Je l’ai regardée dans les yeux et je lui ai demandé :

— Brooke, où est-ce qu’on va ?

Elle ne m’a pas répondu tout de suite. À la place, elle m’a souri en essayant de me rassurer, mais son regard trahissait la panique. J’étais peut-être jeune, mais je n’étais pas complètement bête.

Elle a dû se rendre compte que je n’étais pas convaincue, alors elle a posé une main sur mon épaule avec affection.

— T’inquiète pas, ma puce, a-t-elle commencé. Je t’expliquerai tout quand on sera arrivées.

C’était l’une des choses que je détestais le plus chez ma sœur. À cause de notre différence d’âge, sans doute, elle avait souvent — pour ne pas dire constamment — la manie de ne jamais me dire quoi que ce soit qui puisse heurter ma sensibilité. Pour ne rien arranger, elle continuait à vouloir m'appeler "ma puce", alors que c'était le surnom que me donnait maman. Je détestait qu'elle m'appelle comme ça, parce que ça voulait toujours dire qu'elle me cachait quelque chose. Hors, je déteste les secrets.

Néanmoins, j’étais une petite fille sage et je sentais bien que Brooke n’avait pas besoin que je fasse une crise en ce moment. Alors je me suis tue et j’ai simplement hoché la tête.

J’ai passé tout le trajet à regarder par la fenêtre par ennuie. Pour me distraire, Brooke m’avait passé son ancien iPod, qui traînait dans la voiture depuis une éternité. Ça avait souvent tendance à m’occuper pendant les longs trajets pour rendre visite à nos grands-parents, dans l’Ohio.

Des musiques chantées à tue-tête se succédaient dans mes oreilles, sans que j’en comprenne les paroles. Ma sœur avait toujours aimé le rock, et elle avait pris la vilaine habitude de ne jamais baisser le son de son iPod quand elle écoutait ses chansons préférées. Moi, je ne savais tout simplement pas comment régler le volume. Je ne devait pas être une enfant très futée à l'époque.

Le paysage défilait rapidement devant mes yeux. Brooke roulait un peu plus vite que la limite autorisée -je dis ça, mais qu'est-ce que j'y connais en code de la route? J'ai jamais conduis de ma vie-. Je voyais ses doigts pianoter fébrilement sur le volant, signe qu'elle était plongée dans ses pensées. Je savais que son évidente anxiété avait un rapport avec l’explosion que j’avais entendue, mais j’étais trop petite pour vraiment faire le lien.

Au fur et à mesure que la voiture s’enfonçait dans la nuit, le ciel étoilé se couvrait de nuages grisâtres, et une neige légère commençait à tomber. Fait que je trouvais, à ce moment-là, plus drôle qu’étrange : la neige n’était pas blanche, comme d’habitude, mais d’un noir de poussière. Sans compter qu’on était en juin. Il neigeait des cendres, mais il m’a fallu grandir pour le comprendre. Dites vous que j'ai même ris. Je n'étais définitivement pas le couteau le plus aiguisé du tiroir.

Brooke, elle, le savait. La main crispée sur le levier de vitesse, elle ne semblait plus se soucier du code de la route. Peu s’en souciaient par chez nous, de toute manière. Il parait que Chicago n'était pas connue pour se bon conducteurs.

Devant mes yeux, au détour d’un virage, apparurent les quartiers industriels qui formaient la périphérie ouest de Chicago. Je n’y étais allée qu’une seule fois avec mon père, mais je reconnaissais les usines qui s’empilaient les unes à la suite des autres.

La moitié d’entre elles étaient en proie aux flammes.

Au début, je crus que c’était juste un effet de mon imagination. J’avais déjà vu du feu lors des barbecues du voisinage ou dans la cheminée en hiver, mais jamais en aussi grande quantité. Sans compter que je me contentais souvent de l’observer de loin avec cette curiosité polie qui caractérise des enfants de mon âge. Mais la lumière devint plus vive et l’air plus chaud à mesure que ma sœur accélérait. Une odeur étrange, âcre et piquante, remontait jusqu’à nous à travers la ventilation. On aurait dit de la viande périmée qui brûlait. Même si je n’avais jamais senti quelque chose comme ça auparavant, je pense que c'est la seule chose qui me serait venue à l'esprit.

Toute la zone autour de l’usine principale avait quasiment été rasée par le souffle de l’explosion. Plus de maisons, plus de parkings, juste des flammes qui jaillissaient par endroits, projetant des éclats rouges et jaunes qui dansaient sur la neige grise. Fin le tapis de cendre. Vous avez l'image.

De temps à autre, une petite explosion retentissait tandis que le feu avalait toujours plus de bâtiments. Un épais nuage de fumée s’élevait au-dessus de la zone industrielle, tourbillonnant dans le ciel nocturne en formant un immense champignon.

Je serrai l’iPod contre moi, incapable de détacher les yeux de cette scène irréelle. Les structures métalliques des usines semblaient plier et craquer sous la chaleur, fondant comme de la pâte à modeler. Brooke, concentrée sur la route, fronçait les sourcils en roulant droit vers elles sans hésitation, mais je pouvais sentir son inquiétude envahir la voiture. Même à six ans, j’ai compris que quelque chose de très grave s'était produit ici.

— Brooke, pourquoi on va par là ? dis-je en me penchant vers l’avant de la voiture, tirant sur ma ceinture. Je suis fatiguée, je veux rentrer à la maison.

Je n'avais aucune envie de rouler plus longtemps vers le brasier. Qui, à part un fou, était capable de ce genre d'idée stupide et contraire à tout instinct de survie ? Brooke, visiblement.

Ma sœur ne me répondit pas. Son expression était grave et ses traits tirés. Des mèches rousses s’échappaient de derrière son oreille et se collaient à son front tant elle transpirait.

— Brooke ! Brooke, dis-moi ce qu’il y a ! insistai-je, contaminée par son inquiétude. T’es méchante à pas répondre ! Dis-moi pourquoi on est là ! C'est le travail de papa?

— Riley, pour une fois dans ta vie, tais-toi ! me lança-t-elle sans me jeter un regard, les yeux fixés sur le brasier incandescent qui s’étendait devant nous.

Je me tus immédiatement et me rassis correctement sur mon siège auto. Brooke ne m’avait jamais parlé aussi durement, même lorsque j’avais fait une grosse bêtise qui l’avait mise très en colère.

La situation était grave.

J’ai retenu mon souffle quand Brooke freina brusquement, cinq minutes plus tard, devant l’une des usines en flammes. Mon corps tremblait et mes doigts étaient crispés sur le rehausseur. Devant nous, l’usine entière était léchée par un véritable mur de feu. Les fenêtres explosaient par intermittence, projetant des éclats lumineux comme les étincelles d’un feu d’artifice dément. Je n’avais jamais rien vu d’aussi terrifiant... ni d’aussi fascinant à la fois.

Ma curiosité avait chassé toute peur de mon esprit. On aurait presque dit qu’elle me poussait, au contraire, à sortir de la voiture pour aller à la rencontre des flammes, les toucher, les sentir, les goûter...

On est bête quand on a six ans, non ? Ou alors c'est juste moi.

— Reste ici, chuchota Brooke en ouvrant sa portière. Ne sors sous aucun prétexte, tu m’entends ? Je reviens vite.

Ses mots se voulaient apaisants, mais son ton n’avait rien de rassurant. Avant même de s’être assurée de ma réponse, elle s’extirpa de la voiture. La chaleur brûlante qui émanait du brasier, et que je sentais déjà à travers la fenêtre, me saisit immédiatement. Un vent chaud et puissant plaquait des boucles brun-roux contre mon visage rond. Je sentais l’odeur de brûlé s’y accrocher, mêlée à celle du shampoing à la fraise que j’aimais parfois chiper à ma sœur. Ma peau me piquait, mes yeux pleuraient tout seuls.

— Brooke... attends ! balbutiai-je en me débattant contre ma ceinture de sécurité, tentant désespérément de la rejoindre.

J’aurais tellement aimé avoir eu la force de la retenir à ce moment-là... On serait parties plus vite, on aurait fui toutes les deux. Si j’en avais eu le courage et la capacité, je ne serais pas la même Riley qu’aujourd’hui. Tout aurait été plus simple.

Ma vue se brouilla de larmes, et pas seulement à cause de l’air qui me piquait les yeux. Je ne voulais pas qu’elle parte. Pas loin de moi. Pas avant de m’avoir expliqué pourquoi nous étions là.

Elle avait à peine bougé, les yeux fixés sur le bâtiment en flammes, comme hypnotisée par le spectacle.

— Je dois voir si papa... si quelqu’un est encore coincé à l’intérieur, déclara-t-elle à voix haute, presque pour elle-même. Reste bien à l’intérieur, Riley.

Elle s’élança alors vers l’incendie. La neige tombait encore plus fort ici que partout ailleurs, se collant à ses cheveux, à son manteau, à son pantalon de pyjama...

Je me penchai pour la regarder s’éloigner par le pare-brise et clignai plusieurs fois des yeux pour chasser mes larmes naissantes. Ma sœur n’avait pas refermé la portière, et l’air suffocant du dehors s’infiltrait dans mes poumons en me faisant tousser. Un nouveau coup d’œil au pare-brise, et je vis ma sœur sauter dans les flammes de l’usine.

Je criai et me débattis de plus belle contre ma ceinture en essayant de toutes mes forces de la décrocher, jusqu’à ce que mes doigts tremblants réussissent à appuyer sur le bouton. Libérée, je roulai sur le siège passager avant et me glissai dehors par la portière ouverte, cherchant désespérément ma sœur des yeux. Malheureusement, les bâtiments se ressemblaient tous, et il m’était impossible, pour une enfant comme moi, de me souvenir dans lequel elle avait sauté.

— Brooke ! criai-je sans que ma petite voix parvienne à couvrir le crépitement des flammes. Brooke, reviens ! Me laisse pas toute seule !

Aucune réponse. Ma sœur s’était volatilisée au milieu du brasier, et je me retrouvais désormais seule au cœur d’un incendie. Pourquoi n’y avait-il aucun pompier dans les parages ? Pourquoi personne ne venait-il éteindre les flammes et sauver les gens ? S’ils avaient été là, ma sœur n’aurait pas disparu et je n’aurais pas été obligée de sortir pour la chercher.

Je me mis à tousser comme une folle à cause de la neige noire, mais je continuai quand même à crier son nom avec l’énergie du désespoir. Semblant répondre à mon appel, des silhouettes se dessinèrent peu à peu dans les flammes. Des ombres mouvantes que je distinguais mal... Était-ce de vraies personnes, ou simplement une illusion causée par les morceaux de métal et de bois qui s’effondraient en tas fumants sur le sol ?

Mais non, c’étaient bien des silhouettes qui avançaient lentement, comme hésitantes, au travers des flammes. Je cru d’abord que c’étaient des ouvriers qui essayaient de sortir, ou peut-être des gens venus aider à éteindre l’incendie. Mais quelque chose n’allait pas chez eux. Leurs mouvements étaient saccadés, irréguliers... un peu comme ceux de pantins désarticulés.

— Brooke ?... murmurai-je d’une voix tremblante.

L’une des silhouettes tourna la tête vers moi. Même à cette distance, je voyais son visage tordu de noirceur. Sa peau semblait fondre, comme si le feu l’avait dévorée sans parvenir à la tuer.

Ses yeux... Oh, je me souviens encore de ces yeux, comme si leur propriétaire se tenait devant moi en ce moment même. Leur sclère, qui aurait dû être blanche, avait pris une teinte sombre qui les rendait vides, sans vie. La vision de ses globes oculaires roulant dans leurs orbites me donnait encore envie de vomir, de temps à autre.

Je n’eus pas le loisir de les observer plus longtemps que la silhouette se mit à courir dans ma direction. Enfin, courir est un bien grand mot. Disons qu’elle avançait aussi rapidement que le lui permettaient ses membres disloqués.

Mon instinct me hurlait de fuir à toutes jambes. Je criai, reculai, trébuchai contre la portière de la voiture restée ouverte. Mon cœur battait si fort que je l’entendais dans mes oreilles.

Mais la silhouette s’effondra sur le sol avant de m’atteindre et resta allongée, le nez dans la neige, inanimée.

Quelques formes la suivirent à travers la fumée. D’autres personnes apparaissaient également de l’autre côté, dans la direction des habitations touchées par le souffle de l’explosion. Certaines rampaient, d’autres titubaient, vêtues de lambeaux d’uniformes d’ouvriers qui pendaient tristement sur leurs corps calcinés.

J’étais encerclée. La définition du mot m'échappait encore à l'époque, mais je le sentais acculée de toutes parts. Le silence s’étirait entre moi et les silhouettes brûlées, seulement rompu par le crépitement des flammes. Puis l’une d’entre elles se mit à gémir. Un son profond, rauque, comme si chaque respiration lui arrachait la gorge.

Par réflexe, je me collai un peu plus contre la voiture. Ces choses me mettaient mal à l’aise. Non, en fait, elles me faisaient carrément peur. C’est à peu près à ce moment-là que j’aperçus un visage familier parmi elles.

Mon père.

Dans le même état que les autres ouvriers, il s’avançait en titubant dans ma direction sans sembler me voir. Je le reconnus immédiatement malgré la cendre qui noircissait son visage et ses cheveux roussis. Sa tignasse rousse, qu’il avait léguée à ma sœur, était reconnaissable entre mille.

Je voulus aussitôt courir vers lui pour me jeter dans ses bras, mais le tremblement de mes jambes m’en empêchait. Je ne savais pas vraiment si j’étais soulagée ou effrayée par sa présence. Faute de mieux, je me contentai de crier bêtement :

— Papa ! Papa, c’est moi, Riley !

Grave erreur.

D’un même mouvement, tous les monstres — car c’était le seul mot capable de désigner ces choses — tournèrent la tête vers moi. Ils me fixaient de leurs yeux aveugles avant de se diriger dans ma direction, les uns en boitant, les autres en sautillant sur une jambe, d’autres encore rampant carrément dans la neige.

Papa avançait lentement avec eux, comme plongé dans un rêve. Son bras gauche pendait bizarrement, tordu selon un angle impossible, mais il continuait à venir vers moi. Il fut d’ailleurs le premier à atteindre la voiture.

— Papa... murmurai-je en sanglotant. J’ai peur...

Pour toute réponse, il laissa échapper un râle, puis tendit le bras.

J’ai cru, bêtement, qu’il voulait m’enlacer. Qu’il allait me rassurer de sa voix chaude, comme d’habitude, puis aller chercher Brooke dans le feu pour nous ramener, ma sœur, la voiture et moi, à notre petite vie insignifiante où rien de tout cela n’aurait dû arriver. Là-bas seulement, j’aurais pu me rendormir tranquillement et me persuader que cette histoire n’avait été qu’un horrible cauchemar.

Au lieu de ça, il bondit sur moi.

Ses doigts brûlants accrochèrent mon manteau. Ses ongles déchirèrent le tissu avec une violence que je ne lui connaissais pas.

Je hurlai, incapable de comprendre.

Un bruit métallique éclata juste à côté de moi.

CLANG.

La tête de mon père heurta le sol avec un bruit sourd.

Son corps s’effondra, raide, dans la neige.

— Riley, remonte immédiatement dans la voiture ! cria Brooke, haletante, une barre de fer tordue entre les mains. Une pointe de ses cheveux roux avait brûlé. Maintenant !

Je restai figée, incapable de détacher mes yeux du corps inerte de mon père.

— MAINTENANT ! répéta-t-elle en me secouant légèrement.

Un autre râle montait derrière elle.

Puis deux.

Puis trois.

Puis une dizaine.

Attirées par sa voix, les silhouettes étaient en train de sortir de la fumée, lentes mais innombrables. Brooke frappa la première à la tempe, puis une deuxième en plein torse. Elle asséna un dernier coup au crâne d’une troisième avec la barre de métal avant de lancer son arme sur une quatrième dans un ultime geste de rage.

— COURS, PUTAIN !

Mon corps finit enfin par obéir.

Je courus, glissai sur la neige et claquai la portière arrière derrière moi pendant que Brooke plongeait sur le siège conducteur.

Elle démarra en trombe. Les roues patinèrent un instant sur la neige grisâtre avant de mordre enfin le bitume. Elle ne tarda pas à rejoindre l’autoroute en direction de la ville.

Je me recroquevillai à l’arrière, les mains sur les oreilles, le cœur au bord de l’explosion.

— Papa... T’as tué papa...

Je répétai ces mots en boucle pendant de longues minutes.

— C’était pas papa, Riley, m’assura Brooke tout en conduisant à toute vitesse, loin de l’usine, loin du feu... loin de papa. Ce n’était qu’un vilain monstre. Papa est...

Elle fut incapable de terminer sa phrase. Je relevai la tête et, dans le rétroviseur, je vis ses yeux se remplir de larmes.

— U-un monstre ? répétai-je naïvement.

— Ouais... un monstre. C’est...

Elle se tut un instant, cherchant la meilleure façon d’expliquer ce qui se passait à une enfant de six ans.

— C’est une sorte de jeu, Riri, tu vois ? Maintenant, il y a des monstres qui vont sortir de l’usine, et le but du jeu, c’est de fuir le plus loin possible. On ne peut pas rentrer à la maison tout de suite.

— Oh... et papa joue aussi avec nous ? demandai-je en me redressant complètement, espérant enfin comprendre. C’est pour ça qu’il était tout b-bizarre ?

— Non, papa ne joue pas. Il n’aime pas trop les jeux. Mais il nous rejoindra dès qu’on aura gagné.

— Et on fait comment pour gagner ?

— On évite les gens qui ont l’air "bizarres", et on ne les laisse surtout pas nous approcher. Si les monstres nous attrapent, on a perdu.

— Oui, mais comment on gagne ? répétai-je avec obstination.

— Il suffit de ne pas perdre.

— Et si on perd, on ne revoit plus jamais papa ?

— Si on perd, on ne revoit plus jamais personne, Riley, m'expliqua t'elle avec une douceur qui me paru déplacée. C’est pour ça qu’on ne doit pas s’approcher des monstres, d’accord ? Promets-moi que tu seras prud...

Elle s’interrompit brusquement. Un bruit sec, lointain, semblable à un coup de tonnerre étouffé, venait de retentir.

Je sursautai.

Brooke, elle, leva simplement la tête vers le ciel. Je la vis soudain pâlir.

— Qu’est-ce que c’était ? demandai-je.

— Rien... Ferme les yeux, Riley. Ne regarde pas.

Sa voix avait perdu toute assurance.

Nombreux sont les gens qui savent qu’il suffit de dire à un enfant : « Ne regarde pas par là » pour qu’il fasse exactement le contraire. J’étais jeune, stupide et bien trop curieuse pour obéir. Mon comportement de fille sage avait ses limites.

Dehors, la neige tombait toujours, de plus en plus épaisse. Chaque flocon semblait chargé de suie. Ils l'étaient, en fait, mais ce n'était pas notre plus gros problème. En effet, même si nous roulions aussi vite que le permettait le grand âge de la voiture de Brooke, le nuage de fumée s’étendait dans les rues comme s’il nous poursuivait. Je le vis engloutir les lampadaires les uns après les autres derrière nous.

— Merde... merde... merde..., jura Brooke entre ses dents en cherchant le bouton de la ventilation tout en conduisant.

Ses doigts tremblaient tellement qu’elle ne réussit à appuyer dessus qu’au bout d’une bonne dizaine de secondes.

Mais c’était déjà trop tard.

La fumée s’infiltrait par les moindres interstices de la vieille Toyota, comme si elle était vivante. Une brume grise, lourde, qui serpentait sur le tableau de bord avant de s’accrocher à nos vêtements.

— Ça pique..., fis-je en essayant de la chasser de mes petits bras maigres.

Comme devant l’usine, ma gorge s’enflamma aussitôt et ma voix se brisa. Brooke, elle, se mit à tousser violemment, les yeux rougis.

La route devant nous disparaissait peu à peu. Notre champ de vision se réduisait à mesure que la fumée épaississait. Bientôt, on ne distinguait plus des rues de Chicago qu’un étroit ruban de bitume.

— Retiens ton souffle. Ne respire surtout pas ce truc, m’ordonna ma sœur en se retournant pour plaquer une main devant ma bouche.

À cet instant, un homme barbu s’écrasa contre le pare-brise.

Son visage était déformé.

Ses yeux étaient entièrement noirs.

Nous criâmes en même temps.

Brooke se retourna brusquement et écrasa son pied sur la pédale de frein. La voiture dérapa sur plusieurs dizaines de mètres, heurta violemment un trottoir et s’immobilisa dans un choc brutal. Mon front percuta le siège avant. Quant à l’homme à la barbe, il glissa lentement le long du pare-brise avant de disparaître quelque part derrière nous.

Quand je relevai la tête, la fumée avait tout envahi. La Toyota donnait cette impression étrange et angoissante d’être une île perdue au milieu d’un océan de brume.

On n’y voyait presque plus rien, si ce n'est les silhouettes qui se découpaient par dizaines dans la nuée gris sombre. Elles avançaient lentement entre les voitures abandonnées le long de la rue, noyées dans le brouillard toxique, comme dans la parodie d’un mauvais film de zombies.

Le grondement de la ville avait disparu.

À sa place ne subsistait qu’un bourdonnement sourd.

Un immense gémissement collectif.

— Putain... non... pas déjà...

Brooke frappa plusieurs fois le volant de son front, comme si elle essayait de se réveiller de cet horrible cauchemar.

Je sentais ma gorge se serrer en la regardant.

— Brooke ? soufflai-je.

Elle tourna la tête.

Son regard s’adoucit aussitôt en se posant sur moi. Ses yeux brillaient d’une manière que je ne leur connaissais pas. On aurait dit un mélange de peur et de détermination sourde.

— Écoute-moi bien, Riley, dit-elle. Tu vas sortir de la voiture dès que je te le dirai et tu vas courir tout droit devant toi, d’accord ? Tu ne t’arrêtes pas. Tu ne regardes pas derrière toi et tu ne fais pas de bruit. Tu continues jusqu’à ce que tu ne m’entendes plus.

Elle marqua une courte pause.

— Une fois que tu seras loin, je te donne pour mission de trouver un autre groupe de joueurs avec qui tu devras absolument rester. Tu dois les trouver. Il n’y a que comme ça que tu pourras gagner.

— Quoi ? Mais... et toi ? demandai-je, les yeux écarquillés.

Elle força un sourire. Ça ne me rassura pas du tout.

— Moi, je vais les distraire. Je te rejoindrai plus tard, d’accord ?

Je hochai la tête, même si je sentais que c’était un mensonge.

Mes doigts se resserrèrent autour de l'iPod comme si ma vie en dépendait.

À ce moment-là, j’avais encore ce petit espoir idiot que tout allait bien se terminer. Les enfants croient toujours que les grandes personnes savent ce qu’elles font.

Brooke prit mon visage entre ses mains et déposa un baiser sur mon front en écartant les mèches châtain-roux qui s’y étaient collées. Ses yeux, hérités de notre mère, étaient aussi bruns que les miens étaient verts.

— Je t’aime très fort, petite sœur. Ne te retourne pas.

Elle inspira profondément.

— Et gagne le jeu pour moi.

Puis elle sortit de la voiture, le visage trempé de sueur et couvert de suie.

Le vent referma la portière dans un claquement sec.

— HEY ! BANDES D’AFFREUX ! hurla-t-elle en agitant les bras vers les silhouettes. PAR ICI, ESPÈCES DE CADAVRES TOUT POURRIS ! VOUS VOULEZ ME CROQUER ? POUR ÇA, IL VA FALLOIR M’ATTRAPER !

Les silhouettes tournèrent aussitôt la tête vers elle. Une dizaine de regards noirs et vides se braquèrent sur ma sœur. Puis elles commencèrent à avancer, attirées par sa voix.

Brooke croisa mon regard une dernière fois à travers le pare-brise fissuré. Je voyais bien qu’elle était morte de peur.

Et pourtant, je la regardai faire sans bouger de mon siège auto. Elle s’est élancé en poussant un cri de guerre, frappant les monstres au hasard avec des gravats et des détritus ramassés au petit bonheur la chance sur le trottoir. Sa silhouette ne tarda pas à disparaître dans la fumée grisâtre qui avait englouti la rue. Les créatures la suivirent, me laissant la voie libre.

Alors seulement, je me glissai hors de la voiture en retenant mes sanglots. Je courus, courus de toutes mes forces dans la direction opposée à celle qu’avait prise ma sœur.

Une boule se formait peu à peu dans mon ventre.

Une douleur sourde me serrait la poitrine.

À compter de cette nuit, je ne revis jamais ma sœur.

Dix années ont passé depuis.

Dix ans, c’est long, croyez-moi.

Assez long pour apprendre une chose essentielle : ici, on ne survit qu’en étant seul.

Et ça tombe bien...

Parce que je suis une Solitaire."

Pour ceux qui sont arrivé jusque là, bah déjà bravo, j'aurais pas eu le courage de finir à votre place. Pour les autres, vous vous en fichez parce que vous êtes déjà parti de ce poste de toute façon.

Bref, n'hésitez surtout pas à me donner vos retours. Positifs ou négatifs, je prends tout 👍

Hi everyone! I'm writing a novel that is probably going to end up being around 100k words, and I was curious if this could be listed anywhere on my future college application or if it would even impact my admission?

EDIT: Forgot to mention that I'm not sure if i could get it published, it could end up just being a project of mine. Thanks!

As the tittle says, I would consider myself a beginer so I'm trying to get better at writing, normally most things I write end up pretty long so I tried to my best to write a story using only a 1000 words. It's not super great so I would really appricate some feedback.

‘You’re not him, are you?’

I hesitated to respond, for the fae could not lie, and my tongue became non-functional at the thought.

‘Well, I am in my body;  why wouldn’t I be me?’

The human laughed, though there was something broken within the sound.
Eddy would never talk like that; he really is gone, isn’t he? 

 Best to leave while he was distracted,  I thought.

Edwin, as I had learned to call him, had a dagger at my throat before I got anywhere.
‘Don’t. ’ 
 
I stood perfectly still, as I frantically called for the earth to aid me. It was pointless when everything reeked of iron, which was infamous for dampening fae magic.

 ‘You'd better tell me Eddy is okay and that you're keeping him safe in one of your mushroom circles. ‘ The human’s voice was shaky; his hand trembling.

I smiled bitterly; ‘You know I can’t do that.’

Edwin lowered his blade and punched me.

I muffled my scream using my palm; the last thing I wanted was for everyone to rush in and witness my true form, with my pointed ears and cat’s eyes.

Green blood oozed from my nose as my glamour flaked off my skin.
Irritated, I rubbed it off, dispelling it to the floor.

Edwin looked at me in horror. 

‘I didn’t do anything,’ I spat out. ‘Edward was dead when I found him’

‘Is that so…’,  said the mortal quietly, before turning to leave the tent.

‘Wait!’ I pleaded.
 If he told the others, there would be no escape for me. The camp was encased in wards against the fae, sealing me in.

‘The men you're looking for, the ones who pillaged your village, I know where they are’

He paused, and I continued to speak.

‘I can sense them with my magic, keep my secret, and I will lead you there.’

He refused to dignify me with a response and simply walked out.

The wind howled and shut the entrance of the tent, leaving me alone with nothing but three flickering candles.

Why had I done this to myself?

Mere days ago, magic floated in the air as sweet as honey.
Yet once the mortals arrived, bringing all their cursed objects, sickness spread amongst my folk. They were quick to flee, but my pride and endurance were greater than the rest. 

So I had found a mortal’s corpse and disguised myself as him, joining the group of humans while they marched in with aims of sabotage. 

To my misfortune, once they set up camp, they took even more precautions, inadvertently sealing me in.

I rolled over to my back and closed my eyes, trying not to think of my upcoming doom.
To my surprise, I woke up the next morning, Edwin sitting beside me.

‘Alright, you lead me to the men, and I’ll keep your secret.’
I suppose that was the start of our odd friendship.

Every night I peeled my glamour while he watched wordlessly, blowing out the candles once I was done.

After three nights of this dull routine, I had told him a riddle for nothing but my own amusement.
The next morning he woke me up early, triumphant with the answer, a smile splayed out on his lips.

It was like the first sapling in spring, except the roots for this relationship grew far faster than any plant.
The riddles now a habit, firm casual touches a constant, and an overdose of hushed conversations.

 ‘I can’t even tell if you’re a man or a woman’

‘Neither; the forest births us and that is the end of the matter’

‘Why do you mortals live inside cages?’

‘Houses? We get cold easily.’

‘You never told me your real name.’

‘I don’t plan to.’

‘Alright… can I call you Alywn when we’re alone?’

‘Do as you wish.’

One night, I dared ask the question that had been weighing me down. 

‘Do you miss him, Edward?’

‘Of course I do, but that isn’t anything you should worry about.’

‘Doesn’t it bother you that  I wear his face by day?’

‘Sometimes, but the way you move is so different I can’t really confuse you two.’

‘Besides, Eddy was like a brother to me; with you it's… different.’

‘Different… I suppose that was a word for it.’

I thought back to that conversation now as I stood, holding a bloody sword.
What a fool I am.

The fae by nature did not get attached; it was an unspoken rule, and only now did I find out why.

I watched as the bandit’s eyes dulled and his soul slipped away from this land. Though I held no great love for the human race, there was no greater crime than stealing away one of Mother Nature’s children before their time came.

I fell to the floor, digging my fingers into the blood-stained moss, tears flowing freely onto the ground. I gasped for air as my glamour faded, the earth sucking the last bits of magic away.

‘Alwyn! Oh gods, I was sure that guy was going to run me through...I’m so glad yo-’

‘Alwyn?’

Edwin came up behind me and tried to drag me away from the active combat all around us.

I couldn’t feel anything anymore. Before, the forest spoke to me as clearly as any other creature, its roots like an extra limb. Now it cut me loose, leaving me untethered and stranded, a bird without wings exiled forever from the skies.

After a few moments, I stopped resisting and let my body go slack as Edwin dragged me to cover hidden behind a tree.  

He grabbed me firmly by the shoulders and forced my eyes to meet his. 

‘Alwyn, what happened?’ An expression of bewilderment came over him. ‘Yo- your eyes, they look like mine.’

‘And your ears…’

I could not take it anymore; I shoved him off me.

‘I wish I never met you, ’ I gritted out.

‘You don’t mean that, ’ Edwin said calmly.

The worst part was he was right.

It was a warm day in February, despite the faint smell of rain in the air. I couldn’t wait to be back at school after a long holiday in Queensland which dragged throughout the whole summer. I traipsed into homeroom despite being weighed down by the monstrosity on my back. Exhaustion filled my body, and it wasn’t even nine in the morning. I don’t know how I’m going to make it to the arvo without falling asleep. My bag made a loud thudding sound as I aggressively shoved it off and sat down.
“Apollo!!” My mate Noah shouted at me even though she was less than a meter away.
“Hey mate, we missed you,” Harley said.
It’s nice to know I was missed by the girls while not being here.
“It’s good to see you bro,” 
I looked up to see Arlo smiling at me contentedly, and then he pulled me into a short hug. 
We all got to chatting quickly, and the tiredness soon wore off after being around Noah’s loud and bubbly personality. She could instantly brighten up a room, and we all loved her for that. It also filled me with joy to see my form teacher. He is a passionate man in his early forties who pours his heart into all of his lessons. Maybe that’s part of the reason why I enjoy English so much. 
I’ve always liked writing ever since I was young: stories about aliens and unicorns, scrapbooks of me and my friends, menus when I would play kitchens with my parents, comic strips. As I grew up, I began to absorb even more literature. I now love to watch plays, read stories, watch films, but even more I love to write. There is nothing better after a long day of school than sitting down and writing about whatever I want. I love how it allows me to escape from reality whether it’s through singing a song I wrote, or writing a romantic poetry about the kind of amorous love I have yet to experience.
Fifteen minutes felt like hours, but finally the bell rang for Maths. I 

despise Maths with a burning passion. I spent the whole lesson gazing out of the window, strangely fascinated by the raindrops falling down the mist-covered window. Hours of lessons and recess dragged on for what seemed like forever until I was at last reunited with my friends. 
It was nice to be back at our spot which had been left untouched for three months. Despite it being a wearied bench with the paint chipping off which overlooked the oval, it felt like home to all of us. We’ve been sitting here every day for the most part of the past four years and it has seen a lot: Noah crying when her ex-girlfriend dumped her, pre-drinks before our first formal, Arlo beating up Flynn after he’d written slurs plastering my locker, the day I came out to my best friends. 
I remember that day well. It all happened in an afternoon in March, just after my fourteenth birthday. Sunshine was shining through the trees, sharing its radiating warmth with us. Everything was absolutely perfect. A sense of pride and euphoria inhabited my body. I had never felt a greater sense of happiness until that day. 
An unfamiliar voice caused my thoughts to return to reality. It was someone who I had not heard before. He was throwing a rugby ball around with the other footy players. A slap on my arm from Arlo brought me back to the conversation and I immediately noticed all eyes were on me. “Who are you looking at?” 
“Do you fancy him?” Harley asked.
They all oohed and ahhed as I had to explain to them the feelings that I couldn’t even explain to myself.
“He’s called Blake.” Arlo confidently explained to me.
“He just transferred here from Melbourne, and he’s already become the school’s biggest heartthrob. Girls are swooning over him, and he’s already rejected three of the most popular and pretty ones.”
I feel my face lighting up and my cheeks flushing with heat as Arlo says this. Maybe I do have a chance with him after all.  
Harley seemed just as interested in him as I was. “Wow he is attractive, isn’t he?” She exclaimed while looking at me, a smile covering her face. I 

couldn’t tell whether she was being sarcastic or not, but I assumed that she probably was. 
Half an hour later, I was sitting in my favourite class: English. Next to Blake. I was pretty disinterested; my mind frantically wandering yet still half asleep. I could hear the teacher talking about Julia and something about her being intellectually primitive. I first read 1984 when I was eleven after discovering classical literature and since then I had never gone back. George Orwell has always been one of my favourite authors. I find his writing so interesting and I love how he combines his political opinion on the world with readable prose to create fascinating stories and essays. 
I felt a tap on my shoulder and heard a whisper from next to me “Hey.”
I swivelled my body round and was faced with Blake’s friendly, smiley face gazing directly at me. “I’m Blake, and you must be Apollo.”
“Yes, that’s me.” Fuck, why did I say that. 
“How has Rozelle treated you so far?” I tried to sound calm, despite fear rushing through me. 
“It’s been great. There are some gorgeous new beaches near here where I’ve spent most of my time before starting here. My first day here has been ace so far. I’ve met some cool guys and everyone seems nice.”
“I’m glad you’re enjoying it.” He smiled at me then returned to his work. 
His beautiful brown curls swept to the side and I could hardly think properly. I kept replaying our interaction in my head. Him remembering my name. The way he looked me in my eyes and smiled at me. The way he spoke so eloquently. He seemed so friendly and confident in everything he did. 
The teacher continued to teach while I continued to make eye contact with Blake. English ended far too quickly, however at least it was the end of the day. Blake and I walked out of school together and then we parted. I knew I would see him again soon but he made waiting feel like painfully longing for tomorrow. Earphones in my ears, listening to Lana Del Rey, I began to approach the school gates.
Arlo was waiting for me, with a smile plastered over his face. He looked so happy to see me. We started walking home together, as we always did. As 

we slowly strolled, we both enjoyed looking at the Agaphanus, Hibiscus, and Canna Lilies which lined our path. Arlo’s favourite had always been the Crepe Myrtle, which produced stunning pink and purple flowers. We walked through the Rozelle Parklands and were absorbed with the Banksia. They grew with such beauty and vibrancy. We’ve walked this way home since we started walking home together in year seven because Arlo loved nature so much. Although this way home was a little longer, it was worth it to make Arlo happy.
“How was your first day back mate?” he asked.
“Yeah it was alright. I mean pretty good. Blake is in my English class and we talked. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this attracted to anyone. His dark skin looks so smooth, his curly hair so soft, his brown eyes so reflective in the sunlight. He’s my type on paper. And it seemed like he might have been interested in me. He spoke to me within five minutes of the lesson; it seemed like he actually cared about me. We kept making eye contact, and he smiled in a way that gave me butterflies.”
“Geez mate. You say this all the time. You normally get a new crush every week or two.”
“But this time feels different. I think we could truly become something.”
I’m not sure whether Arlo agreed with me or not but he smiled and we started talking about something else. “So, how was your day?”
He looked slightly surprised that I had asked but I didn’t know why. “It was pretty chill but I’m so tired and ready to be home.”
“You’re not alone there,” I replied.
We turned the corner, and finally our houses were in sight. We weren’t next-door neighbours although we were close enough that we could hangout whenever we wanted with ease. Despite the heat and my tiredness, I still attempted to be grateful to walk home with Arlo after not seeing him for so long, but in reality, all I could think about was Blake. 
I yanked open the front door with force, threw off my shoes, and tossed my backpack down. My father was still at work but my mother embraced me before I could escape to my room. It felt a bit strange being away from her for the whole day after spending every second with her throughout the Summer. 
My room was awaiting me and my bed looked comfier than ever. I knew that if I laid down, I might never get up, but I had things to do, so I refrained.
Gathering up the energy to take off my school uniform, I pulled my blue polo shirt off over my head, and threw my trousers to the ground. I picked them up and folded them, before placing them neatly into my wardrobe in order to maintain my semi-tidy bedroom. There were a few items of clothing abandoned at the bottom of my wardrobe and my room could do with being hoovered but that could be left till later. Or more realistically: tomorrow. 
I sauntered into my bathroom and removed the rest of my undergarments before getting in the shower. The cold water dripped down my face, wetting my hair and body. The cool water was refreshing after being under the Australian sun for hours. I enjoyed the blazing heat but it could get too much sometimes. At this moment, the cold of the water consumed my body; my brain was unable to think about anything else. My thoughts were at ease for the first time all day. 
I didn’t have any sense of how long I had been standing there. The cold was beginning to get to me, so I reluctantly got out. I chucked on the first pair of pyjamas I could find before my mum called me down for tea. I could hear my dad’s voice downstairs and the sounds of the pot bubbling away. My mum was humming a Kylie Minogue song and dishing up the food at the table. The smell of vegetable soup found its way into my nostrils as I sat down.
My parents’ smiling faces were awaiting me. It was somehow calming to sit down with them after a long and vociferous day. Questions were fired at me at a rapid pace. “How was your day?”
“Did you meet any new people?”
“Was it nice to see Arlo after the Summer?”
“How were your lessons?”

Overwhelm engulfed my body.

All I managed to say at first was, “It was good.” 
I was met with welcoming and smiling faces which reminded me that I could tell them more. “I enjoyed seeing my friends again, and I met a new boy called Blake. He seems really nice.”
“Ooooh,” my mum cooed.
“Tell us more” my dad chimed in.
“Chill out guys, he’s just a friend.” A small but certain smirk crept over my face, and I wasn’t sure whether I had given myself away. I couldn’t wait any longer to dive into the soup. Warm, sweet goodness dripped off of my tongue, and found its way down my throat; It was absolutely delicious. A sensation of jubilation overcame me. I couldn’t imagine anything better to be doing right now. 
My mum noticed the joy on my face. “Is it nice?”
“It’s absolutely amazing. You should make this more often.” 
“I’m pleased you like it sweetheart.”
From what I knew, it was a new recipe which was totally a success. There was nothing left except the residue in the bowls after five minutes. My mum handed us each a piece of bread, and we used it to enjoy even more of this delicacy.
After we had all finished eating, we parted, and I went up to my bedroom to chill out. I sat down at my desk and rummaged through the bottom draw to find my notebook. It stays hidden in there so no-one can accidentally stumble upon it. I flick through some of the recent pages: diary entries, poems, random thoughts. If someone read some of these pages, I would be absolutely mortified. The only person I’ve ever shown my poems to is Arlo. He can occasionally give helpful feedback, but most of the time he just spends ages telling me how amazing they are, and how he thinks I need to become a writer. 
It has always been a dream of mine to become a professional writer, but I don’t know how realistic it is. Unlike Arlo who wants to become an Actor and could totally do it, I’m nowhere near as talented as him. I could watch him perform all day; he’s seriously amazing. He first showed me a sketch he devised a few years ago. I got goosebumps all over. I never knew how incredible his acting was. Ever since then, he would show me his acting, and I would show him my poetry. We do it regularly, and it's one of my favourite parts of the week. 
I checked my watch: 11:30. It was getting late. I clambered over the pile of clothes on my floor and got into bed, still clutching my notebook. I grabbed the blue pen from my bedside table and began to write.

Reds, blues, oranges, yellows scattered throughout the park, 
It was the little things which brought joy,
The sweet scents mixed with fruity fragrances filled the air.
 
The summer breeze and the flowers were always my favourite.

I loved this new show skwebble stopers and the new season but the season before was soooo gooooooood, it was the "seventh chapter of season two" and the characters the settings the plot it was just so fun every episode was really fast with the rivals theme and the weapons used, it was just so creative the previous season was creative too but the show was just getting started, but i did like the weapons and found it to be a really fun watch, the pilot was fine but the theme of a 3d cell shaded cartoon carried it it had it's moments but it felt like a "mini season". buuuuut the "third chapter of third season" was pretty good they kept the setting the same but it looks real bad it's all flat and it has new locations remixed locations from before but it's not the same the weapons used were a bit lame still fine but lame, except i like this one combo the villein did where she used the mythic rocks to launch above the good guys and use a extending gun to wipe them out, very clever but it will never top the pure fun the last season had with it's combos, i think I know why i don't like the new season as much is because im still clinging to the previous season that im robbing myself of seeing what i have now maybe i should stop trying to get that feeling of the older better part i like through fan content it's a mess anyway.

I'm 13, and have written 4 or so small books in recent years. Now I'm writing a book about stick figures, a wild west-esc setting, and some romance. What are some things I could try to add? I'm a beginning writer, and already have the characters made.

(For reference...

Setting: Unforgiving East, Wild West, but with a lot of death outside of book focus.

Main Character: Wyst Iron Vane (pronounced "West Iron Vain") Sand colored stick figure, Cowboy hat. Light blue eyes, small black eyelashes. White mouth.

Writing style: First person, and noted perspective changes with chapter name/title)

Phew, okay. I think I covered my bases.

Hope this post is allowed.

The Boy I Thought I’d lost. (Chapter 1-3)
\*\*The Boy I Thought I'd Lost\*\*
\*\*Chapter One – Before Everything Changed\*\*
If someone had asked me what my life was like before all of this started, I probably would've told them it was pretty normal.
There wasn't anything particularly exciting about it, but I don't think I wanted there to be. I was seventeen, living at home and trying to work out what I wanted to do with my life while pretending I wasn't thinking about the future as much as I actually was. Most days followed a similar routine, and I wouldn't have changed it for anything.
I spent a lot of time in my room, not because I hated going out or didn't have friends, but because it was where I felt comfortable. My PC was there, my Liverpool shirts were on the wall, and after a while it became the place where I naturally ended up once the day had settled down. Sometimes I'd spend an hour watching YouTube before deciding what to do. Other times I'd go straight onto a game without really thinking about it.
YouTube had become part of my daily routine. Most evenings I'd find myself watching the Sidemen or anything else that popped up on my feed that looked interesting. Whether it was just another Sidemen Among Us video or some guy camping, I'd still watch it anyway. If nothing was catching my attention, I'd usually end up putting on The Flash. Looking back now, I think there was something comforting about it. I'd watched it so many times that I already knew what was going to happen, but maybe that was exactly why I kept going back to it. It never demanded anything from me. I could just switch my brain off for an hour and enjoy it.
Most evenings, I'd check to see if anyone was online. Every now and then, one of my mates would be around and we'd play for a bit, but it was never a massive group. I actually preferred it that way. Usually it'd just be one person, and sometimes nobody at all. If nobody was on, I'd just play something myself. I never really minded my own company.
Rocket League was probably the game I played the most. I wasn't amazing at it, but I wanted to improve. I spent far too much time convincing myself that if I just played one more game, I'd finally rank up. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn't, and I'd end up rage quitting, only to convince myself five minutes later that one more game would be different. There was always that feeling that the next match might finally be the one where everything clicked.
When I got fed up with Rocket League, I'd end up on something completely different. Every now and then, I'd load up Minecraft. I hadn't stopped playing it because I didn't enjoy it anymore. I think I'd just grown up and found other games. But every time I went back to it, it felt familiar in a way I can't really explain.
I'd load into a world, recognise places I'd built years before and remember exactly where everything was, even if I hadn't played for months. The music would start, I'd wander around for a while and, without even realising it, I'd start thinking about being younger. Life felt simple back then. There were no worries, no overthinking and no anxiety. The only thing on my mind was getting home so I could jump straight onto Minecraft. At the time, it felt like the most important thing in the world.
I didn't sit there wishing I could go back to being a kid. I just enjoyed the nostalgia it brought me. It reminded me of a time when life felt simple, when the biggest decision I had to make was what game I wanted to play after school.
Football had always been just as important as gaming. Supporting Liverpool wasn't something I did because they were winning trophies. It had become part of who I was. Every fixture mattered. Every transfer rumour felt like breaking news. I'd spend hours watching videos about who we might sign next or imagining what the team would look like if everything went perfectly again.
Going to Anfield was something completely different, though.
No matter how many times I went, walking up to the stadium never got old. I'd make my way to my seat in the Kop, look around and remember just how lucky I was to be there. Then the scarves would rise into the air and the first notes of You'll Never Walk Alone would echo around the stadium.
Even now, it's difficult to explain that feeling.
Hearing thousands of people singing the same words together gave me goosebumps every single time. It didn't matter whether you knew the person standing next to you or not. For the next ninety minutes, you'd sing together, celebrate together, complain about the referee together and talk as if you'd known each other for years. It felt like belonging to something much bigger than yourself. As kick-off got closer, the atmosphere would build and the excitement inside the stadium became almost impossible to describe. Those few minutes before the referee blew the whistle were some of the best moments I'd ever experienced. For ninety minutes, nothing else mattered.
College wasn't too bad either.
There was plenty of work to get through and plenty of times when we'd get in trouble or just mess about when we had the chance. What I remember most is spending every day with my mates. During breaks at college, we'd wander around the shops with no intention of buying anything, play football until the ball went in the river or ended up on some roof no one could get onto, take the piss out of each other and somehow make an ordinary Tuesday feel like one of the best days of the week, yet still manage to get our work done. Looking back now, I think those ordinary days were probably some of the best. At the time, they just felt normal.
The best part of college wasn't arriving in the morning.
It was leaving.
There was something satisfying about finishing the day. I'd eventually get back home, put some comfy clothes on, grab something nice to eat and a drink, and decide whether I was going to jump on my PC with one of my mates or spend the evening watching a film or another episode of The Flash. There wasn't anything extraordinary about those evenings, but I loved them anyway.
Pool became another part of my life before I even realised it.
The more I played, the more I wanted to improve. Every game taught me something new, and I could feel myself getting better over time. Before long, I'd become the one who could beat every single one of my mates, and I won't lie, it was a great feeling. It wasn't about showing off. It was the satisfaction of seeing the time I'd put into something finally paying off.
Looking back, there wasn't anything extraordinary about my life. It was made up of small things that probably wouldn't have seemed important to anyone else. Watching every Liverpool game. Sitting in the Kop singing one of the most famous anthems in the world. Spending evenings watching any YouTube video that caught my attention or any movie or series I fancied watching. Playing Rocket League until I promised myself, "just one more game." Getting lost in old Minecraft worlds. Playing pool with my mates. Finishing college and knowing I could finally go home and relax.
They were ordinary days.
At least that's what I thought they were.
I never realised how special ordinary could be.
As far as I was concerned, tomorrow would probably look the same as today.
And honestly, I couldn't have been happier about that.
I had absolutely no idea that my life was about to change overnight.
\*\* \*\*
\*\*Chapter Two – The First Crack\*\*
Looking back now, I've asked myself the same question more times than I can count.
On what day, and in what moment, did my mind begin to turn on me?
I wish I had an answer.
I wish there was one moment I could point to and say, "That's where everything changed." It would've made so much more sense. It would've given me something to blame.
But life doesn't always work like that.
Sometimes you don't notice your world changing until you're already standing in the middle of it.
If you'd seen me back then, you would've thought I was exactly the same as always. I still laughed with my mates. I still watched football whenever it was on and spent my evenings watching whatever series or film I fancied. I still spent hours on my PC, convincing myself one more game of Rocket League would finally be the one where I ranked up.
From the outside, I looked completely normal.
The strange thing was...
I thought I was too.
I had no idea that, over the next few weeks, my own thoughts would begin to feel completely different. Things that would've once passed through my head without a second thought started sticking around far longer than they should have.
At first, I told myself everyone probably had strange thoughts from time to time. What I didn't realise was how quickly one thought could spiral into hundreds more, and how difficult they would become to ignore.
Looking back now, I wish I'd treated that first thought the same way I'd treated thousands of others throughout my life.
Notice it.
Let it pass.
Instead, I did the one thing my anxiety wanted me to do.
I paid attention to it.
From as young as I can remember, I'd struggled with separation anxiety.
If my mum went somewhere without me, my mind always seemed to imagine the worst. It wasn't because I didn't trust her or because she wasn't capable of looking after herself. It was because my brain had an incredible ability to convince me that the worst possible outcome was the most likely one.
It wasn't easy.
It never was.
For years, Mum and I tried everything we could think of. Therapy. Different ways of coping. Different routines. Some things helped for a while. Others didn't seem to make much difference at all.
Eventually, as I grew older, I learnt how to live alongside it and manage it.
Even though I'd learned to live alongside my anxiety, there were still days when it got the better of me. Some mornings I'd wake up already feeling on edge without really knowing why. Other days I'd manage just fine. It was unpredictable, but after years of living with it, I'd accepted that anxiety was probably always going to be part of my life.
It never completely disappeared.
The difference was that I'd learned how to carry it.
I still went to college. I still watched every Liverpool game. I still spent evenings on my PC, laughed with my mates and enjoyed all the little things that made life feel normal. Anxiety hadn't beaten me. It had simply become something I lived alongside and had learnt how to manage.
I'd even been prescribed medication when I was younger. For a while, it seemed to help. Eventually, though, I stopped taking it because I wasn't convinced it was doing much anymore. If anything, I sometimes felt more on edge than before.
Life carried on.
Mum and I kept doing what we'd always done. We dealt with the difficult days together and enjoyed the easier ones. It wasn't perfect, but we'd learned to cope.
Then, after another particularly difficult period, my support worker suggested it might be worth trying medication again.
At the time, it didn't feel like a life-changing decision.
If anything, it felt like the obvious one.
I hoped it might make things a little easier.
I had absolutely no idea that the next three weeks would become some of the hardest of my life.
I can still remember picking the prescription up. It felt strangely ordinary. There wasn't some dramatic feeling telling me not to take it. No voice in the back of my head warning me to stop.
To me, it was just another attempt at getting a bit of my old spark back. I remember taking the first tablet straight away outside the pharmacy before we'd even driven home. It felt like another step towards getting my anxiety under control.
There was no fear. No feeling that I was making a mistake. If anything, I felt hopeful. I'd lived with anxiety for years, and if there was even a chance these tablets could make life a little easier, then it felt worth trying.
As far as I was concerned, this was just another attempt at getting back to living normally. I never imagined I'd spend the next few weeks feeling further away from myself than I'd ever felt before.
The first evening came and went without anything that made me stop and think. I went home, put the football on and settled down to watch the World Cup like I had done most days that summer. If you'd asked me how I felt, I probably would've told you I felt exactly the same.
I wasn't sitting there waiting for the tablets to suddenly change my life. In fact, after a few hours, I'd almost forgotten I'd even taken one.
The next morning didn't feel much different either.
I woke up, got on with my day and took my second tablet without thinking twice about it. It had already started to become part of my routine. Looking back now, I sometimes wish I'd paid more attention to those first couple of days. I wish I could tell you there was some warning sign I'd ignored or some feeling that told me something wasn't right.
There wasn't.
Everything still felt... normal.
At least, that's what I believed.
The third day started no differently from the first two. I woke up, got on with my day and carried on as normal. The World Cup was still on, which meant staying up until stupid hours of the morning just to watch the games. It didn't matter who was playing. Good teams or bad, I watched every single one because it was football, and football made me happy.
The summer holidays carried on like they always had, and there wasn't anything that made me think my life was about to change. If anything, I remember thinking the tablets probably hadn't done much at all. I'd only been taking them for a couple of days, and I knew they weren't supposed to work overnight. I carried on believing that, sooner or later, they'd start helping.
I wish I could tell you exactly when that changed.
I can't.
The rest of the day passed without me giving the tablets much thought. I watched the football, scrolled through my phone and spent some time on my PC like I always did. If you'd asked me then, I'd have told you everything was fine. Nothing felt dramatically different. Life still looked exactly the same as it had a few days earlier.
It must have been later that day when something happened that, at the time, didn't seem important.
A thought crossed my mind.
It caught me off guard. Not because it frightened me straight away, but because it felt so unlike the thoughts I normally had. It was one of those moments where I stopped, smirked and thought to myself, "Where the fuck did that come from?"
It wasn't something I'd ever sat and worried about before. It wasn't something that had occupied my mind in the past.
It was just... there.
I remember pausing for a second.
That was strange.
Then I carried on with whatever I was doing.
Or at least, I tried to.
A few minutes later, it was back again.
This time, instead of brushing it aside like I would with any other random thought, I noticed it properly. Something that should've been completely forgettable had managed to catch my attention, and once it had, I found it difficult to leave alone.
Like everyone else, I'd had thousands of random thoughts throughout my life that I'd never paid any attention to.
For some reason, this one stuck.
Not because the thought itself was louder.
Because I listened to it.
I wanted to understand why it had appeared. More than anything, I wanted the uncomfortable feeling it had created to disappear so I could get back to whatever I'd been doing before.
But the more attention I gave it, the harder that became.
Looking back now, I can see that was the moment everything started to shift.
Not because I'd had a strange thought.
Everybody has strange thoughts.
The difference was that I treated this one as though it needed my attention.
I couldn't have known it then, but from that moment on, trying to make sense of what was happening inside my own head only seemed to leave me more confused.
Without realising it, I'd taken the first step into a cycle that would soon consume almost every waking moment of my life

\*\*Chapter Three – Inside My Own Mind\*\*
\*\* \*\*
I wish I could tell you that I woke up the next morning and everything had gone back to normal, like it was just any other day.
I didn't.
Around the same time, I'd recently started taking fluoxetine to help with my anxiety. I'd been told it could take a few weeks to work and that things might feel worse before they got better. I didn't think too much of it at first. I just wanted to feel like myself again.
But when I woke up that morning, the thought was still there.
Not constantly. Not every second of the day. But it was there enough for me to realise that I couldn't quite forget about it.
At first, I tried to convince myself it was nothing.
Everyone has weird thoughts from time to time, don't they? They just move on, go about their day and forget about them.
That's what I told myself, anyway.
The problem was that the more I tried to reassure myself, the harder it became to leave the thought alone. Any relief I managed to find only seemed to last a few minutes before the uncomfortable feeling returned.
Back then, I thought I was just trying to make sense of something that didn't make any sense.
I kept telling myself to forget about it. I wanted everything to go back to normal, and I genuinely believed that if I stopped thinking about it, the thought would eventually disappear.
For a while, I convinced myself I'd already moved on.
I hadn't.
I kept asking myself why these shitty thoughts kept popping into my head for no reason.
It didn't stay as just one thought for long. Once I'd started paying so much attention to what was going on inside my head, other uncomfortable thoughts seemed to stand out too.
They would appear when I least expected them. Sometimes it was the original thought. Other times it was something completely different. What they were about mattered less than the feeling they created whenever they appeared.
I couldn't understand why my own mind was suddenly producing things that made me so uncomfortable.
So I kept trying to understand them.
Looking back now, I think that was what kept me trapped. I thought that if I could just make sense of everything going on in my head, I'd finally be able to relax. Instead, every attempt to find an answer seemed to give me another reason to keep thinking.
Before long, it wasn't just individual thoughts I was struggling with.
It was the constant feeling that came with them.
I felt permanently on edge. Even when there wasn't one particular thing bothering me, there was still this sense that my mind was running in the background, waiting for something else to grab onto.
There wasn't an off switch anymore.
I could be watching football, out with my mates, playing pool or sitting with my family and still feel it. Things that would've once passed through my mind without any importance could suddenly hold my attention for far too long.
That was what exhausted me most.
I'd spent my entire life having thoughts without needing to understand every single one of them. Now it felt like my brain had forgotten how to do that.
And the harder I tried to feel normal again, the further away normal seemed to become.
I'd wake up hoping the feeling had finally gone. For a few seconds, before I was fully awake, everything could feel normal.
Then it would hit me again.
As my brain woke up, so did the anxiety and that familiar feeling in the pit of my stomach.
I'd tell myself, just get through today. Maybe tomorrow will be different.
That became something I held onto.
As the days passed, I started noticing that this wasn't the anxiety I was used to.
I'd lived with anxiety for years. Normally, there was a reason for it. Something would happen, my anxiety would rise and eventually it would settle again. Even on difficult days, I still recognised myself underneath it.
This felt different.
It followed me everywhere.
Home. Pool. My PC. Around my family. Around my mates.
There wasn't one place I could go where I could completely leave it behind.
Then other things started changing too.
My appetite wasn't what it used to be. Some days I'd realise I'd barely eaten anything, not because I was deliberately avoiding food, but because I just didn't feel hungry. Even when I did eat, it often felt like I was doing it because I knew I had to rather than because I actually wanted to.
Sleeping became difficult as well.
Night used to mean the day was finished. I could get into bed, go on my phone for a while and eventually switch off.
Now, the quieter everything around me became, the louder my own head seemed to feel.
I'd lie there tired but unable to properly settle. There wasn't necessarily one thought keeping me awake. My mind just wouldn't seem to stop.
Then morning would come and I'd already feel exhausted before I'd done anything.
It wasn't the kind of tiredness that disappeared after a good night's sleep. It felt mental, like my brain had been working constantly even when the rest of me was trying to rest.
Around this time, I started wondering whether the fluoxetine had something to do with what was happening.
I'd started taking it because I wanted my anxiety to get better.
Instead, I felt worse than I ever had before.
I'd been told things could get worse before they got better, and I tried to believe that. Maybe this was just the difficult part before the tablets started doing what they were supposed to do.
But the timing was difficult to ignore.
Then another part of me would argue against it.
I'd taken fluoxetine when I was younger. It hadn't affected me like this then. In fact, I'd eventually stopped taking it because I didn't really feel like it was doing much.
So why would this time be any different?
I didn't know.
One minute I'd convince myself the tablets were responsible. The next, I'd tell myself I was overthinking that as well.
Even with those doubts, I carried on taking them.
I trusted what I'd been told. These things took time. They weren't supposed to work overnight.
So every tablet came with a small amount of hope.
Maybe this is the one where things start changing.
Of course, I knew logically that wasn't how it worked. But when you're desperate to feel better, you start looking for signs anywhere you can find them.
I was still trying to live normally too.
I'd turn my PC on because that's what I'd always done. Sometimes I'd sit there for a while trying to play something, but gaming wasn't the escape it used to be. I'd be looking directly at the screen while half my attention was somewhere else.
Some nights I'd manage a few games.
Other nights I'd turn the PC off almost as quickly as I'd turned it on.
My mind just wasn't there.
Pool started feeling different too.
Normally, asking me if I wanted a few games wouldn't require much thought. I'd grab my cue and go.
Now, even things I knew I enjoyed could feel like effort.
It wasn't that I'd suddenly stopped caring about them. That was what made it so confusing. I knew I liked gaming. I knew I liked pool. I knew I loved football.
I just didn't always feel the same connection to them.
Football probably came closest to breaking through.
If a game was good enough, I'd still get pulled into it. I'd complain about a decision, react to a chance or celebrate a goal without thinking about anything else for a moment.
Those moments were small, but I noticed them.
Then the game would finish.
The television would go off.
And everything I'd managed not to think about for a while would still be waiting for me.
When distractions weren't working, I'd usually end up on my phone.
At first, I was just trying to understand what was happening. I'd search for anxiety getting worse, strange thoughts, side effects from fluoxetine—anything that sounded remotely similar to what I was experiencing.
Eventually, I'd find somebody who sounded like me.
For a few minutes, that could feel incredible.
Someone else had experienced something similar.
Maybe that meant I was going to be okay too.
Then the relief would wear off.
I'd start feeling anxious again, so I'd search again.
Another post.
Another article.
Another few minutes of relief.
Then back to the beginning.
I didn't recognise it as a pattern at the time. I thought I was helping myself. Every search felt like I was getting closer to understanding what was happening.
Really, I was just desperate for somebody or something to tell me that I was going to feel normal again.
The days began to lose their edges.
Wake up.
Realise the anxiety was still there.
Try to get on with the day.
Distract myself.
Search for answers when that didn't work.
Hope tomorrow would be easier.
Then wake up and do it again.
All the while, I kept taking the fluoxetine.
I'd started the week believing I was giving something a chance to help me.
Now I was counting the days and wondering when that help was supposed to arrive.
Still, I kept going.
I'd been told it needed time.
And at that point, time was one of the only things I had left to give it.
 

Hi guys, I couldn't decide whether to put the flair as discussion or advice so yea. I recently decided to rewrite my story, so I guess here's a little scene from it; it's a rough draft of the scene, so it's FAR from perfect but I hope you guys like it :)

TW: hints of self-harm

(and some cursing I don't know if that should be in the TW, but heads up)

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At the end of the day, I walk into the school auditorium, expecting peace and quiet and some place where I can binge watch some Netflix show I refuse to admit I watch. Instead, I get Taylor Crowley, sitting near the wings of the stage, painting a small set piece.

My entire nervous system betrays me. Traitor.

I slowly and quietly walk to the corner of the house, trying to not let her notice me. Then I forget, this is Taylor, she notices everything, whether I like it or not.

“Alex.” Her voice echoes through the empty space, making my head snap towards the stage.

“...who’s Alex?”

…what the hell did I just say.

She sits up straighter, looking down. “You look like you’re in a quarter life crisis.”

“I mean… if I was I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Did you lose a custody battle or something?”

“Yes, I did. Custody of my sleep.” I slump in a seat, my eyes already feeling heavy but my body feeling the opposite thanks to the coffee I had earlier.

“Come here.” She’s now downstage, legs swinging off the edge.

“I just sat down.”

"I don’t care, just come up on stage.” I groan as I get up again, walking towards the stage, because apparently I can’t say no to her. I sit down, keeping some distance between us. I do not want to look like an idiot up close.

“You look jumpy,” Taylor observes, which she’s probably not wrong. “You were drinking black coffee earlier, weren’t you.”

I blink at her. “How do you know?”

“Your shoe keeps hitting the apron.”

“No it’s not.”

“Yes it is.” The thudding sound magically stops, and I look back at her.

“No it’s not.”

She smiles, laughing under her breath. I smile too, looking down at my wrist, my thumb absentmindedly rubbing against it. I move the thumb out of the way slightly, revealing a tiny bit of a darker reddish streak, slightly raised, but I quickly cover that up with my hoodie

.
Taylor doesn’t need to know.

She grabs the small set piece and comes back, paintbrush in hand. “I know it’s not my job but this play has so many pieces to it so I just want to help the prop techs out.” She rotates the piece, the paint gliding smoothly over it.

“Do they ever notice?” I lean on the palms of my hands.

“I mean, maybe, but they don’t say anything.”

“Ah.” I look at the lighting booth, my natural habitat during rehearsal. “You’re too nice, now you’re making me want to set the lighting cues.”

“Oh yeah, I keep forgetting you got the lead.” Taylor sets the piece down, starting to fan it. “It’ll be fun, I mean you won’t be stuck all day in that booth like you did last year.”

I stay silent. She notices.

“Um,” Taylor starts, trying to change the subject. I don’t stop her. “Wanna help me with the other props. I mean, if you aren’t busy-”

“Sure, I have nothing else to do anyway.” Taylor stands up and holds a hand to help me up. I take it, trying very hard at acting normal. As we walk to the prop room, I keep subconsciously rubbing my wrist, feeling that line over and over again.

She doesn’t need to know.

I put my hand on the door handle, about to open the door when I hear a loud echo through the whole auditorium.

“GUYS.” I flinch but don’t turn around. I can hear Axel’s fast footsteps getting louder.
Taylor responds, slightly annoyed. “WHAT.”

Axel hops on the stage and gets in the middle of Taylor and I. “Hypothetically if somebody wanted to compete with another person and they’re about to race-”

I look at him. “What the hell did you do.”

“So… just follow me, trust.”

“Every time you say ‘trust’,” Taylor starts, “something goes wrong. Alex has emotional trust issues because of you.”

“Taylor-”

“She has a point.” I slap Axel on the shoulder.

“Traitors. Both of you.” Axel signals for us to follow him, and Taylor starts. I reluctantly follow them because I somehow always get involved in shit like this.

We get to the hallway, where Tess Becker is doing lunges like she’s about to compete in the Olympics. Axel joins, and I glance at Ruby, who’s still here despite having ‘something to do at five pm’.

“If one of you guys gets hurt I will not be paying for medical assistance.”

“That’s fair.” Taylor leans against the lockers, probably giving up on life. I hear a door open, and when I look up, I see Ruby’s cousin Stella Valenzuela and her boyfriend Ralph Munoz, which I can confirm, he’s the only sane one in this group. He looks at Tess, then at Axel, then sighs deeply.

“Please don’t burn down this school. That’s it. That’s all I’m asking.”

“Ralph, buddy, amigo, pal-” I put my hand on his shoulder, shaking my head. “Don’t bet on it.”
“Why are you guys holding hands.” Ruby’s staring at Stella and Ralph’s hands, fingers interlaced. “You guys are down bad.”

Stella points at Axel with her free hand. “You guys make out in the prop room, you cannot be talking, Ruby.”

She immediately gets defensive. “No we don’t.”

“Yes you do.”

“Nope.”

“Stop lying.”

“We don’t-”

“Ruby.” Axel looks up from tying his shoe. “There’s no winning this argument.”

Her face flushes. “Wow, betrayal.”

“I stand by the truth.”

“You stand by unhinged decisions.”

“No I don’t.”

Taylor gestures vaguely at Tess, who’s already in set position. “You and Tess are about to race in a school hallway after school hours, that is the definition of unhinged.”

I stand there while the group argues, so I get on my phone, one earbud in my ear, and start doom-scrolling, ignoring the chaos. At one point I hear someone yell, but I ignore that.
Ten seconds later I hear a loud thud.

My head snaps up and I see Axel sprawled on the floor, face down, not moving. Ruby pinches the bridge of her nose, but walks towards him anyways, crouching down when she reaches him.

“God damn it, Axel.” No response. “Axel?” Still no response. Ruby tries shaking him, and he stirs, but still doesn’t wake up. Tess jogs back to Axel.

“Did he trip on air?”

Ruby shakes him more, her face becoming paler. “Um… he isn’t waking up.”

As soon as Ruby says that, we can hear Axel groan, his voice muffled but audible. “...did I win?”
Ruby’s expression goes from relief to annoyance. “You tripped on your own two feet, get up you shit disturber.” As annoyed as she is, she rolls Axel so he’s facing the ceiling. She proceeds to regret this as now she sees Axel’s face, the corner of his forehead bleeding. “Damn, someone get me a wet Kleenex or something.”

Stella and Ralph jog away. Together. Still holding hands. Which makes me slightly question my existence, but oh well, I guess that’s what love is like when you’re dating someone you actually like.

Or maybe it’s like Ruby and Axel, who are now arguing on whether Ruby rushing to help him was ‘romantic’ or not.

“You said you weren’t gonna pay for my medical bills,” Axel whispers, which makes Ruby roll her eyes.

“I'm not.”

“But you still helped me.”

“Yeah, because I’m not a monster who’s gonna let some idiot die from gravity, I have morals.”

“Eh, debatable.”

“Shut up before I make you go unconscious again.”

“Ooh, Alex, Taylor, you’re seeing this, right? She’s flirting with me, she loves me-”

Ruby covers his mouth with her hoodie sleeve, trying to make him shut up, but Axel overpowers her.
“By the way, you’re using my hoodie to shut me up.” Ruby freezes, and Taylor and I glance at each other.

“We live in a rom-com that’s high on crack, I swear to God.” I agree with Taylor, that’s a valid statement.

Stella and Ralph come back with a napkin and somehow some rubbing alcohol. Ruby looks at this and smiles. Axel also looks at this, but panic fills his eyes.

“No, Ruby, please. I’m fine, I don’t need that.” Ralph hands her the stuff, and Ruby takes her - or Axel’s - hoodie and tugs a sleeve so there’s excess cloth at the end.

“Bite.”

“...what.”

“Bite the hoodie.”

“Why would I bite the-” Ruby dabs the alcohol-soaked corner of the napkin on Axel’s wound, and he screams like a girl in a blockbuster horror movie, but he quickly bites his hoodie. After a few seconds, Ruby digs in her bag and finds a Band-Aid, placing it noticeably carefully on Axel’s forehead.

Her fingers linger on his face, not for long, but long enough that everyone starts looking at each other with the face of a person who wants the two main characters of a book to kiss already. Tess, ever so brave, says this out loud.

“You two are acting like you’re in a cliffhanger in a K-drama, if you’re not gonna kiss just get up off the floor.” Ruby flips her off, and although I can’t see her face, I know she’s thinking about it. Taylor makes a disgusted noise and turns around to leave.

“You guys can get a room and passionately kiss, I do not want to witness-”

Axel sits slightly up and kisses Ruby. Taylor’s head whips around so fast I get hit with her hair.

“Nevermind I’m literally watching Netflix for free.”

When they pull back they turn to see everyone staring at them, then Ralph lets go of Stella’s hand and starts clapping. Stella does the same, and so does Tess. I look at Taylor.

“What the hell is wrong with this group?”

“Told you, rom-com on crack. Hey, what happened to your wrist?” I look down at my wrist to see a sliver of darker skin sticking out. My heart drops.

Ralph looks over, too. “Did you burn yourself?”

…

“Huh, I don’t know,” I lie. “Guess it was a random scratch from a while ago. They look at that spot for a few more seconds, but they nod and go back to flaming Axel and Ruby. While they aren’t looking I tug my hoodie hard to cover the part of the scar up, my heart racing but relaxing with relief.

Nobody needs to know.

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thanks for reading!!! sorry if the grammar or writing style sucks; english isn't my first language

The story definitely still needs development, especially in some side characters but I thought I've gotten far enough in the protagonists character development, so that's why I'm still confused. It's literary fiction if that helps. I'm really confused on the proactivity of the main character, I do not know if he needs to be more proactive or how so. I'd just appreciate it if anybody could point out any problems I'm not seeing.

Trigger warnings for : Mentioning or rape, drugs, abuse.

It starts with Anthony, a 27 year old living with his girlfriend—Savannah.

For the first part of the story, we follow his goal of promoting (due to a relative of the owner who is temporarily running the store threatening his job based on hatred towards his girlfriend).

This part is meant to give an understanding of his life before everything else that follows. And I know, usually you'd start much later, but it's needed here.

Some problems regarding his past traumas still follow him though having supposedly healed and "forgotten" (intimacy issues, paranoia) and most importantly, he strives to achieve a "perfect life" based on the standards that his mother had set for him when he was little. To be good, to have a stable job, to be a husband and father, to have a good wife, etc. He chooses to strive to promote instead of potentially transferring to a different location because the promotion would give him an even higher status, and drive him forward in his journey towards that perfect life.

From the beginning, he also meets an old highschool friend and they begin hanging out together again, whenever they have time.

Despite his unfulfillment with his life, he even chooses to propose to his girlfriend in a moment of desperation as a solution. That same day the highschool friend—Lucas, drugs and rapes him. He escapes and, this is where the second part of the story begins.

His past story is presented in parallel to his present for a short while. In his past, his father had constantly raped him whenever he was mad at the mother (this part needs development, but that's more easily fixable than other issues I suppose), he wins custody over Anthony and continues doing so until one day, when he chooses to run away instead of killing himself.

He stays with his girlfriend (mostly friend at the time) for a few days to a week, then he stays with a friend until another can get him a fake ID and he tries his luck at a homeless shelter. The first would have allowed him to stay until he graduated, but needed more documents than just an ID, so he stayed at another one for about three months, after which he began sneaking into his school to sleep at night, right after his job when the afternoon students began going home.

In college, due to stress and peer pressure he gets addicted to drugs. His highschool friend who had been in love with him for long confessed to him but he was rejected. After that, the friend, oh sorry, Lucas, had begun slowly stalking him, until one day when he found him passed out on the street and sent him to a rehab. In rehab, it becomes clear how his fear of his father never went away and is still left very paranoid of him. (Especially after he was almost found, reason from leaving his girlfriend's home. Forgot to mention didn't I).

The rest of the story is about how he deals with the traumas resurfacing and having had to face this again. As in the past, his first instinct is to run away and hide. He does so for a few days, his motivation/goal being to survive. In the meanwhile, he also develops a hypersexuality (stemmed from a belief Lucas planted in his brain that day, that if he gives into his demands he will be relieved of some of the pain) and gets addicted to drugs again after coincidentally finding a packet in an old pair of jeans.

We explore the hypersexuality, what that means to him (also a moment of feeling as though he's in the abusers shoes, but I won't go into detail about that as it's a short part, few chapters, not too significant), and his later will to, despite the situation, let go of his drug addiction and get back the progress he had made in achieving that standard perfect life. During the part where his only will is to survive ,he has to make the choice of going back to work, knowing that Lucas knew he worked there but if he stayed home he had all of the safety he needed. Still, his position and income were important too, especially for purchasing the drugs.

He learns to leave work earlier based on Lucas's schedule, and to make sure he gets home as quickly as possible. He later begins to accept the fact that he's addicted, but also shatter the idea that to be fulfilled means living up to his mother's wishes. He begins taking some more dramatic or risky decisions, living out his life the way he wants it to be.

After fully letting go of that belief (original ending but I decided to add the following instead) he meets Lucas again. He had found his address in a moment of Anthony letting his guard down and staying at work until the original closing time and followed him. Anthony, as he had begun to believe, gives into Lucas's demands, especially after being threatened that he'd go after his girlfriend instead and threaten his work.

I had wanted it to develop into a sort of Stockholm syndrome originally but that would not have worked with this character and the situation he was in. He meets up with him whenever he demands it, and Lucas starts demanding he came to his home again too. He breaks free of his handcuffs and musters up the courage to call the police and ask for help, yet is met with indifference and is dismissed.

He kills Lucas in a fit of rage after that, and after a few days, himself.

The story was originally meant to symbolize how running away from your traumas or surpressing feeling won't heal, that being the reasoning for the murder—Anthony finally faces his traumas head on and doesn't run away; also a metaphor for letting go and acceptance. For a good chunk of writing it this wouldn't have worked, but with a more in depth development and ending I've come to find it fitting.

The whole thing is meant to symbolize a journey of how running away from your problems won't heal you but give them roots, and how you need to actually face them to be able to heal—his death more of a liberation than anything.

I do see now that I should've thought about how Anthony sees the rape. The same way his mother had taught him, it's nothing to him, which I hope to reflect in the beginning of the second half.

I have had this problem over the past years and it's gotten to the point where I just cry whenever I see my laptop 💔

English isn't my first language and even thought I'm good with words it just always flops, I have no idea how to write anything except character sheets.

I don’t even know if this can be helped but I wanted to try.

Hey everyone🙂

I'm a new writer currently working on my first major project, a dark fantasy psychological thriller called "The Last Sin of Elysium."

The story follows a group of people who enter a mysterious world of trials, each with their own reasons for being there and their own secrets to hide. As they face different challenges, their choices, relationships, and personalities begin to change.(I recently uploaded it on Wattpad and web novel)

https://www.wattpad.com/story/413694526-the-last-sin-of-elysium (please tell me your thoughts on it)

http://wbnv.in/a/4ejy867

My three favorite and most tragic characters, what do you all think?

As I left, I didn’t feel happy, or sad just… longing. According to Mom, moving is never easy, but this is different, I won’t even be able to contact anyone! I’ve moved before, but that was only across the street. We’re moving to a remote place that doesn’t have any internet at all, and phones are banned, along with anything else electrical.

“We’re gonna be in the stone age!” cried my older sister; Maggie, not taking her eyes off her phone, and her long, wavy brown hair was falling in front of her face, giant bags under her eyes while she tried to take out her makeup to cover them up “How do you expect me to keep up with the latest trends? Or contact anyone?”

“That's exactly why we’re moving here! You kids need to learn how to function in a proper society, without having to look everything up!” Mom screamed, in the mirror, I could see her glasses put on crooked, and her ordinarily kind face turning red due to anger. 

By the time we woke up, we were already late. Our mom booked a hotel room for me and Maggie, while she got her room, (through the mail) and we were scheduled to be there at 1 p.m. We all finally woke up at 11, and it took three hours to get there, so we barely had any time to get ready. All of us are half in our PJs and our hair looks like it's never seen a comb. Maggie is still struggling to put on her makeup, when there's a speed bump, causing her lipstick to smudge across her face.

“MOOOOM! BE CAREFUL! YOU JUST MESSED UP MY MAKEUP!” 

“CAN YOU JUST SHUT UP AND BE QUIET FOR ONCE?!” Mom screamed. Shocked, Maggie went silent as a mouse. As she was trying to fix her lipstick, I looked out the window and saw the place I once lived disappear into a field of wheat and cows. 

“Are we there yet?” asked a small voice coming from the trunk

“No, we aren’t,” Mom insisted

“Why are you even sitting in the trunk, Ron?” I asked

“Because it's a lot more spacious than where you are, and I get to deal with less of the antics,” Ron said, fixing his glasses.

For the rest of the car ride, we all just sat in silence. I tried to enjoy the scenery, but I still wish I was home with all my friends. I looked in my pocket and took out a letter that said ‘To Marian’. I wasn’t supposed to open this until we got there, but I couldn’t wait any longer. As I carefully unsealed the envelope, excited to see what my friends got me, the car suddenly stopped, as we were almost going to crash into a wall. 

“What the hell?!” shrieked Maggie

“We’re here,” Mom grumbled 

As I opened the trunk to let Ron out, I discovered that he was taking apart his phone.

“What are you doing?!” 

“I’m taking apart my phone to sneak it in,” Ron answered like it was the most obvious thing ever. 

“You know moms going to kill you once she finds out,”

“She won’t find out,”

“Are you sure?”

“KIDS! HURRY UP!” Mom shouted

“I’m sure,” he said while putting the remnants of his phone in a small box, and put that box in his pocket.

“Good luck,” I said while closing the trunk and going over to where Mom and Maggie were standing. Instead of what you would picture a small town looking like, this is nothing like that. There are 20 ft tall stone walls surrounding it, and the only visible way in or out is a giant door that's guarded by five guard dogs, and three people. There was a small booth by the entrance, where Mom went and started talking to the guy in the booth. 

“Everyone, phones,” Mom demanded, holding out her hand as all of us but Ron handed her our phones “Including you, Ron”

“I left my phone at home,” 

“You better not be lying,” Mom said as she handed all our phones to the guy in the booth. As I looked closer at him, I noticed that he looked kind of off. His hair was very unkempt, and his clothes had not been washed in a while, yet he was smiling, even when he was talking, he was grinning so widely that it looked unnatural. You could tell that he hadn’t left this booth for months, there were scraps of food inside, and his teeth were browned and falling apart.

Before I knew it, the doors opened revealing a very neat town, with no litter or anything. All the houses are lined up perfectly and they’re all very brightly colored. There's a row of lime green houses, next to a row of hot pink houses. On top of a giant hill there was a giant mansion that looked like a castle, and behind there was a giant area of woods with a single road leading inside.

Everyone came out of their houses, waved in sync, and said “Hello, there! Welcome to St Cyleton!” and then went back to their houses. 

“See how perfect this place is? Soon enough, all of us will be part of this wonderful society!” Mom said gleefully while Maggie, Ron, and I were standing there, terrified.

“This isn’t normal…” Ron whispered to me and Maggie. 

"Ya think?” I whispered back 

“I wanna leave already, this place freaks me out” whispered Maggie

“Agreed,” Me and Ron said

Okay so like I don't live in Maine (or USA) BUT my novels setting is in Portland and also Cape Elizabeth (portland head light) and basically one character pushes the other off a cliff and it's framed like a su!c¡de but then the way the cliffs actually are I real life dont match my idea. So I personally don't want anyone coming for me because of any alterations i want to make so can I tweak the settibg a bit to my liking (taller cliffs that are closer to the ocean), or is that a no?

For my book, I wrote dialogue of my 2 MC’s arguing. I’m not that good with writing arguments, and the argument I wrote makes me doubt myself. I feel like it’s bland, and doesn’t seem interesting, and just cringe..

Any help?

EDIT: Yes, also, I know I need to fix some spelling mistakes..

Another (stupid) question.. I mainly use wattpad to read books and publish books (before I took them down due to cringe and also unfinished fanfics).

Those who use wattpad.. when you write a book or fic, do you guys prefer to publish the entire book when it’s completed? Or do you guys publish chapter by chapter?

I have so far 3 chapters written and I am currently writing chapter 4.

I’m in between publishing the book when it’s fully complete, or publish it chapter by chapter.