angelsxpie

            I awake to her familiar, almost inaudible sobbing.  My eyes flutter open, and a splitting migraine pierces my brain.  Scanning the room, only to recall my current circumstance, only now I sit upright.  He must have repositioned me.  Her quivering frame is supported on a chair in the far back corner.  We face each other.  I can clearly hear her hushed weeping, but the fear in her eyes shrieks louder than her voice.  I can plainly see her face now that the veiled window emits a small glow from the sun.  She has a slender face and rounded chin. Black mascara tracks run down from her dark, sunken eyes to her cheeks.  Her skin glistens

          I’ve been conscious for about three hours now.  Not that I would know.  I’ve got a watch on my wrist, but the bindings won’t allow me to see it.  I panicked at first when I awoke—thrashing and writhing in my chair.  I discovered that my feet and hands were bound behind me, and duct tape masked my mouth, concealing my cries.  It was no use yelling.  My muted screams would serve no purpose if no one could hear them, so I gave up my pathetic attempt.          He isn’t even here.  No one is.  He didn’t even bother to board up the windows.  I guess he’s not scared that anyone will find me.  Maybe

Branches fly, Smack, scratch my face Lost in green, Overwhelmed in joy. But I fear. Master hears, Leaves crushing, slave panting, Sets the dogs on me, I hear the barking, growling, In the distance, Drawing nearer every second. Tangled in thorns, Dog catches me, bites, I scream, More dogs, and then, Master.     Pale and white against brown trees. Not pure white, though, Dirty and soiled white. Whip laughs, Cackling, Master, he stays silent. Silent, but snickering, No words, though, He lets Whip do the talking.

True friendships need not be tended roses. It thrives, it shrivels, it strives, it reaches. The blossom first may die before it grow’st, As it struggles toward light in the breaches. Friends come, they go, but they never stray far. And if home is the heart, it calls them near. They may wander the world, but wherever they are, They hear the calling of one who is dear. Those roses, my friends, are all shapes and hues. They are tall and short, blonde, red, and brown haired. They sing, they dance, they play sports and write news. Such special roses, to no one compared. Roses may die and wither from weather, Yet stems so mighty shall not

        “You know your new stepbrother’s a real asshole,” Jessica broadcasts, not taking caution to lower her voice as he passes. She shoots a dirty look, as she crouches to the floor to pick up her books.        “You don’t say?” I hiss back with an air of annoyed sarcasm emanating from my tone, acknowledging the thoughtlessness of the ‘asshole’ that knocked the books out of Jessica’s grip.        “You know you’re kind of mean sometimes,” she whines.        “Hey, I take off my headphones to talk to you! Besides, sarcasm is just how I communicate,” I prot

          Some onlooker might make the allegation that I am not sound of mind—that I am a beast—these assertions being deduced from my stature and the slightly uneasy quality that my countenance has involuntarily assumed.  You see, one is mistaken in this respect, for I am completely sane—completely and utterly at peace.  My state of mind is typical, conventional, standard—my intentions of late perhaps arguable, but sensible and coherent nonetheless—I assure you that my self-proclaimed mental state is fact, not falsity, however the decency—the civility—of my person after committing this deed would lik