October (esperandote) wrote in brookhaven,

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"Mommy do you hear me?
Daddy don't you whisper.
Sister don't you cower.
My brother is just like the others.
I long to feel them drying, the tears that I am crying.
But the tears are warm and sticky.

I screamed until my throat was raw,
then you reeled back and hit me in the jaw.
I am keeping all my hopes in a jar, for me the future has no door.

She was writing in her note book, the only thing which kept her sane. She had eaten too little for lunch and drank too much, meaning the contents had recently been washed down the drain. Who was to say that October was in pain? Of course she was the one. She was always the one. No one else understood it, even the doctors claimed that it was phantom, something in her head.

I can show them something from inside my head, she thought. With trembling hands the woman set aside her note book, having a craving for the stale brew that was always free in joints like this. She could wander out and into the city, dressed up like an old maunt out of habit, he didn't like her showing off that which she did not rightfully have to give.

Suddenly the idea of bland coffee wasn't so HOT. She would tuck random strands of hair behind her ears as she eased to her feet, she was going to leave the place.
No, not this town.
Just this building.

There she went, filling herself with false hopes of any sort of escape again.
Spring came in dry heaves and pouring rain as usual. She did not mind that the sky was grey, for that matter she did not notice it. As usual she had swallowed three fingers worth of rum and her medication--meaning that she felt just fine and all was pastel colored. Not a reason to quip or moan, she would toss what little she owed onto the table which she had made her perch for several hours long. The coat that she wore was nothing more than a burlap sack attempting at fashion. She would slip her arms inside of it, wincing as the rough fabric ground her work uniform into her track marked arms. The withering of her veins, piece of mind came at a price, and in more forms than one.

The bell would sound and she would mutter to herself as she slipped from within. Just how long had she had been there? The roads were all too empty and the street lights seemed to favor red and yellow only.
Was this a place where everything slowed or came to a hault, but never went on? Rubbing her palms together, she would duck deeper inside of her coat, pressing against the wind.

(Go ahead and hop in with posts, I would suggest it so that we can position ourselves. We should start responding to eachothers posts IC. I'm around now, still a little shaky from illness, but well enough)
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