I haven't posted anything on this for a long time, and I kind of miss it. I miss the feeling of words pouring from my mind onto the paper -or page, in this case -and I miss it. It makes me feel...whole. Like myself again.

 

I suppose I need to change the title, now that I am not in a Catholic school anymore. Now I am in Del Oro, a public school. To my surprise, I'm finding that I am...happy. I enjoy school.

 

Do you know how long it's been since I enjoyed school? Since I actually had people I could really call friends that were there?

 

It's been even longer since I didn't have to fight to be who I am. I feel accepted...valued. Even if I can't run. Even if I break down in tears because I couldn't breathe.

 

The point is that I'm not afraid to do it.

 

In class I can act as goofy as I want. No one cares. The teachers treat me like everyone else, and no one thinks I'm a teacher's pet.

 

I'm surprised at how good it feels.

 

I can say I like to write, and like to role play, and I don't get weird looks! I can laugh with someone...people laugh at my jokes!

 

And there are other writers! And readers! And singers! I'm no longer known for anything, or envied. I'm just another face in the crowd.

 

I mean, I miss the teachers. I miss the other kids. But it's so nice to hang out with people and not be judged...

 

I argued with the teacher today. He wasn't happy with me. I type a different way than he wants me to and I did it just as well as everyone else. Go me!

 

Just kidding.

 

Why didn't I feel this way before? Was I just not ready for it...? You should have seen how it changed me. When summer started, I actually expected everyone to insult me, push me down...make me feel invisible.

 

My mom even told me that's how I was acting. Pathetic, eh?

 

Now...I don't have that problem. I feel like I'm part of something, and I will never not be a part of it.

 

Thanks for reading,

 

Sara

Pain. Such an interesting concept. How can you define it? It's something that hurts, right? There's different kinds of pain, though -mental, and physical. Of the two, which is more painful? I'd go with mental -it lasts longer.

 

However, the moments after the worst month of my life, I could say I was completely numb. Who wouldn't be? I had been abandoned by my parents...no, not abandoned. They had sold me to the government, simply because I could talk to my twin. When he wasn't there.

 

For pity's sake, he made things fly and he was only sent to a special school!

 

Now, don't get me wrong: I love my brother. I'm just a little jealous that he was the favorite. Only after he turned out to be abnormal was I pulled into the spotlight. And I hated it. My parents, who had always ignored me before, now became my best friends. They bought me everything.

 

Until, one day, I started to talk to John as if he was in my room, when he was half way across the country. Before I could even blink, I found myself dazed and confused in a white lab where if they weren't wearing white lab coats, they were in police coats.

 

Now, two years after, I still can't remember how I escaped. But I do remember a lot of people dying. And I don't feel sorry for it.

 

After I had escaped, I stumbled out onto the streets dressed in only a hospital gown. I was bald, cold, and ill. It was there that a gang of other gifted people found me. They took me into their run-down apartment, clothed me, and helped me get better. They were my family for a year, until I got put in jail.

 

Then, like my parents, they abandoned me.

 

So forgive me if I don't trust -if I feel like I have no reason to. I'm numb, but I hurt. I feel the pain of my past.

 

Go figure.

 

-Kait

Today, I was told that something I said made a person feel stupid. Not a big deal, right? You move on.

 

You have to understand -I pride myself on speaking in a diplomatic fashion. I try not to offend anyone. Plus, I've felt stupid so many times because of what someone said. I don't want to do that to anyone. I just want to stay in the middle -avoid conflict. Just because I've been in too much conflict...and most of it was my fault.

 

I took a quiz recently. It wasn't the first time; I had taken it a year ago too. My results were completely different. A year ago, I was the one who meditated, and helped solve conflict. This time? I'm the one who listens, but doesn't feel understood.

 

God, both are actually true.

 

How can a personality change in a year? A year, for pity's sake!

 

I'm done now.

 

 

I want to scream.

I want to cry.

My heart is hurt,

I don't know why.

I feel betrayed,

but I am the betrayer.

I am sad.

I am hurt.

But it's not just me

who's in pain.

I hurt someone too.

            Have you ever wanted to do something so badly that you actually felt physically ill? I have had it happen several times this week. As a result, I have a pile of stories that I cannot do anything with. One of those stories was this one.

 

            Writing a story just about me, as I believe I’ve mentioned, is harder than it should be. I am a quiet person by nature, and I do not like to throw my troubles upon someone else. Writing this makes me feel like I am telling you my problems. It is a strange sensation.

 

            Have you ever watched Star Trek; The Next Generation? If so, do you remember Data? He is the android character who is desperately trying to be human. When reading this, I feel like him, instead of as the teenage girl I am. Is that normal, or is it just me?

 

            Yet again, I feel this urge to write, but also to just sit and stare at the computer screen. We are leaving soon to go to Oregon. I am not a huge fan of traveling, so one could say that I am not thrilled about it. Still, I have little choice, so I am going anyways.

 

            Spring break has started at last! No longer do I have to sit in class, with my forehead against the rough plastic of my desktop as I write, sketch, or color. I don’t have to stare at those pink backpacks that make my eyes hurt. I don’t have to hear “like” every other sentence.

 

            However, I do have a brochure and a world religion report to do for school. I swear, if they could, some of the teachers would assign a project for over summer. I am not even sure why we bother doing some of these things.

           

            Today I will not write much; I am not in the mood to write about myself. Too much of this annoying day has been spent telling others how I feel. What I really wish to do is write yet another dark story. It works out well, I suppose, because I have the perfect start for it. I will still write this because I simply want to get it done.

 

            Most of the time, teenagers get their first jobs at sixteen. I got mine last year, at the end of May, tutoring a boy named Timmy. I started in September, though, because there was only a week left of school. I would have a nice paycheck –ten dollars an hour and two hours per week –and the kid seemed quite nice.

 

            Summer ended, and I went back to school. In September, as promised, I started tutoring the eight-year-old. It was then I learned that there was not much tutoring required. My real job was simply to get him to sit and do the work.

 

            We worked in the computer lab, where the running of fans was not uncommon. Usually, we only had half of the lights turned on, so it was fairly dark. I would pick up the keyboard and place it on the top of whatever computer Timmy was using, and then move the mouse away so he could have room to work. He would make excuses usually, like “I need to sharpen my pencil” or “I need to go to the bathroom”, and if he did not come back in ten minutes I would go to check on him. My little brother, Kevin, was also with us, and Timmy had endless fun tormenting him. Occasionally, they did get along.

 

            We couldn’t work in the library, for the days I had picked to work were the days that detention was held. The library and the computer lab shared a wall, and I closed the door between them so my shouts could not be heard. Unfortunately, they were heard anyways. I found this out when I loudly said the principal’s name to get the boys to quiet, and to my surprise, he appeared at the door, a puzzled look on his face. There was also the time when two of the owners of the pink backpacks had detention. Timmy was particularly troublesome that day, and so I was shouting more than usual. I opened the door to get them to hush, and there those two girls were, staring at me as if I had sprouted horns. I am the quiet one in class, and to hear me shouting so must have been quite a shock!

 

            My job did not just include shouting, though. Every tutoring day I either chased Timmy around the room, pulled him out forcibly from under a table, threatened to get the principal, or shouted until I was hoarse. Sometimes I did all three.

 

            Bribing only worked part of the time. I would tell him that he could play on the computer after, I would give him candy, or find out some more about the military –for he loved hearing about the military –but it only worked for a bit. Some days it worked better than others.

 

            The parent and the aunt of Timmy later dismissed me, saying that they didn’t have the money to pay me.

 

            Go figure.

 

            Now I am completely clueless about what to write. I suppose I will continue later.

 

            And so ends the musings of Sara, the brain-dead girl.

Another chapter in my unofficial biography.xD

---

            Have you ever come upon a thing where you start, but do not know how to continue? It is certainly odd. Sometimes I can’t seem to stop writing. It just goes and goes, developing a life of its own, filled with twists and turns, like a true story should have. Other times it simply won’t come out. I find this –I suppose it could be called a diary –to be exceedingly difficult to write. I can’t help wondering why.

 

            Today it is two hours after noon. I just had lunch, and am currently sitting in my room. The only light comes from my computer screen, and my window with its closed blinds. My violin, abandoned, in a way, rests on the small, blue futon couch placed right under the large window. I have not played it in several days, and I feel some guilt because of it. Instead of playing it, though, I shall simply relax in the peace and comfort of my room. My mom once called it a library and I think I agree with her. Books, CDs, boxes, sheets of music, clothes cover the floor, but I can’t say it ruins the affect. For the first thing you see when you enter –other than the violin which stares at me in a pleading way –are the two bookshelves that are packed with books. Then there is my bed, covered in a canopy and quite nice to look at when it is properly made, and my closet, which has things pouring out of it. What kind of things? Felt, wires, bags and shoes make up a brief summary, and most of them are black. Near the closet is a stable made of light wood. It is filled with various Bryer horses that I collected when I was younger. Next to the stable is a black, temporary table with a lava lamp, a phone, a case filled with pens, and a few other things on its smooth plastic surface.

 

            I have never described my room on paper before. Usually, I explain the oddity of it, for it is odd indeed. Who else has a queen-size bed with a green, fancy metal headboard, a blue and yellow futon, wood shelves and a dresser, a star and moon border, a silver clock, and a hideous orange carpet? And yet, even in its strangeness, I love it dearly. It reflects my own tendency to scrape together odds and ends to make something that is admittedly unique. However, I would feel better if the carpet was some other color than the awful orange.

 

            I can hear my brother shouting and making banging noises as he uses his Legos to play on the stairs. Downstairs, I hear the murmur of my parent’s voices as they talk softly to each other.

 

            I have now set the setting for something amazing and miraculous, like any good fiction should have. I feel the urge to turn this into something where I can look down on myself and describe everything as if it wasn’t happening to me. But I do not yet have the ability to, even if I do tend to speak and think in third person. I cannot yet detach myself from this wonderful thing everyone calls a life. I will simply be content to write this as a diary entry, and I will view it as training for writing a truly good story. It will not be easy, and I do not expect it to be. It would not be fun if it was easy.

 

            Now that I have started, it has gotten out of my control again. I can’t stop, even though my fingers hurt, and I know we must leave. I have been holding these feelings in for so long, and it feels wonderful to get it out in the form I know best; as a story.

 

            Still…it is lacking things, isn’t it? You need a plot or even an explanation of exactly who I am. I am sure you can put together bits and pieces, but you have to have a clear explanation. I am not so good at those. I tend to be diplomatic, despite how I scorn such ideas in my stories. I circle around and around so I do not hurt anyone while trying to say what I mean. It works out well at times when dealing with adults, but I lose most of my peers on the second circle. A plus is that my principal once told me I would make a great Secretary of State. I liked the idea, but I’m not sure if I want to go into politics. My one love is writing, either with a pen or a trusty computer and a word program. Is there a difference, really? Obviously, one has automatic spell-check, and the other does not, but beside that. Isn’t it still putting an idea –doesn’t have to be good! –into words?

 

            I believe I am idealizing again, and using words that I do not even understand. Another Word feature I use to my advantage; right click and check for synonyms. I often misuse words, and I am very fussy about such things.

 

            It is when I am role playing that I truly feel like I am using a pen or a pencil. I am not the type to write everything on word and then post it where it should be, I just type. Backspace is my best friend when I write on a computer, and I would die without an eraser when I write it out on paper. There is a similarity.

 

            Of course, there is the editing. While computer proofreading is lovely, it does not catch everything. You still have to give it to someone, or go through the grueling task of editing yourself. I often neglect on doing both for my first draft; later I glance over it and fix a few obvious mistakes. I do the same thing when I write on paper, only usually there are a few more mistakes to edit.

 

            I am babbling, aren’t I? Another tendency of mine, I am afraid. I do not talk much to my friends, and simply listen, so it is no surprise that now I am just letting it all go in one continuous stream that never seems to stop.

 

            Onto another subject! I go to a Catholic school currently, though I will only be staying there about five more weeks. Once that is done, it is summer, and then into high school. I can’t help wondering why everyone seems to think of it as such a big deal. Yes, it does signify changes, but are they so drastic…? Then again, what would I know? I am simply a thirteen-year-old who has been to five different schools. I view high school as just another school change. My classmates, on the other hand, think of it as this enormous thing that will change them forever. Some are going to a public school, as I will, and are thrilled. They will get to wear those short skirts they treasure so dearly, and will finally be free from annoying jewelry and makeup rules that I simply do not find that annoying. At least, that is what I think. I have never really asked any of them. Perhaps I should, make it an interview. “Into the life of a teenage girl”, it would be called. I believe most of my friends, and myself, would be terrified.

 

            Oh, I have neglected to explain exactly who my friends are. I have kept contact with a few of my friends from some of my five schools. One of them is going to the same high school as me, and another is a bookworm who I haven’t seen in a while, but still care for greatly. I am not so good at keeping in contact, but I am learning. I also am friends with kids in other classes.

 

            They are not my only friends, though. I have friends who I talk to through the internet. I have met most, usually through summer camps or programs, but also through friends introducing me to them. These friends are my internet friends, and they, along with my parents and my dear Word program, keep my spirits up. The internet friends I talk daily with are lively characters –some a little more than others. If I had a nickel for every time they made my eyebrows lift, I would be a rich girl. Then again, if I gave them a penny for every time they made me smile, laugh, or cheerful after a bad day, they would be quite rich themselves! Four of this merry cast I have never met, but I plan to one day. Now, I know what you are thinking; these friends cannot be real! I have thought over it many times myself. But I have known almost every member for four months up to over a year, and never have they pushed me into doing something I regret.

 

            Yet again, role playing does come into this as well. Have you ever heard of it? Think of it as one of those continuing stories if you have not heard of it. One person says something, and then another says something else to add onto it. Now imagine that the first person creates a character with his or her own unique traits. The second person does the same, and the two characters interact –sometimes clashing, sometimes working well together –as they encounter the conflict that the role players set up for them. Role plays can be dull or fascinating, well-written or awful. It depends on who is writing. Age does not come into play usually; I met a ten-year-old once who could write better than I, and a fifteen-year-old who didn’t seem to know where the period, comma and shift keys were. If you let it, it is a great way to become a better writer.

 

            Now that my commercial for role playing is done, I shall continue on with the description of my friends and my relationship. I am not good at holding conversations –I simply do not have much to say. So, in some way or another, most of my friends and I start to role play with each other after a time. With some friends, these role plays are goofy and flitter from plot to plot. With others, they are dark and serious, with some humorous parts. One friend loves having romantic role plays with some tragedies and moments of humor mixed in. I happen to like all styles, and I have proven it with having at least ten characters for each style. Some have more than others.

 

            My hands are getting sore, and it is nearly time for us to go. I will stop now, before I get carried away, and allow you to reflect on how odd this…what is it? An entry? A chapter?  I honestly do not know how to describe this story. It does have a life of its own now, more than I had originally thought. And now, with my feelings out, I find myself feeling a little more comfortable with this strange story. I hope that I continue to grow more so without losing the original quality of the story.

 

            How do you end an entry –for that is what it will be called –on a computer? Should I sign my name in a fancy font, or just write ‘Sara Hannigan’ at the end?

 

            On second thought, I will simply repeat what I said last entry.

 

            And so end the musings and comparisons of Sara Hannigan, the mismatched teenager.

I should be doing homework. Lord knows I have enough. *eyes pile up to knee* That's what happens when you are ill for two days, I suppose. But I have a need to write something dark. I have written so many stories about Henuki that I cannot use him, and he is one of my few characters who qualifies as...well, dark.

 

The only other character I can think of is Naomi Krad. I've always been enchanted by how she turned out, I admit. I just used her to double with one of my other characters, and she became...well, unique. Just recently I have figured out what her past should be.

 

I seem to have an obsession with orphans. When I was in preschool, a teacher asked me where my parents were. My responce? "They died." Go figure, eh?

 

Now, I'm quite happy to have parents. But around three-fourths of my 38 characters seem to lack them. And the ones that do are my favorite.

 

Interesting how things turn out.

 

Anyways, here it is. Even though I should be working on something else...Oh well. I have another day. And it's only four things.

---

It was dark, so dark...there was nothing to help her. Nothing to comfort her when she so badly needed comfort.

 

It had always been that way, even when they had been alive. The wood cabin had always been covered in black drapes, the windows were never open to let in light. The area around the cabin had always seemed to attract shadows. It was shrouded in mystery, but the shadows had never completely taken it over. Something, or someone, had always kept them at bay.

 

No longer.

 

It was noon, but the cabin and the area around it seemed to have been plunged into complete darkness. The shadows had taken over, and greedily devoured everything they touched.

 

Except one thing.

 

A small figure, hardly visable, was curled up in the middle of the floor. Black hair fell like a curtain over it's face, and small, pale hands clutched at black clothing. The shadows did not know what to do; at times they would race forward, and then retreat. Sometimes they slowly crept up, then backed away. Each time they went back, one could see what the small figure was holding.

 

Two bodies lay on either side of her. Both had black hair, both had dark, sightless eyes. One was a female, the other, a male. Each one was pale, as if they lacked blood.

 

A sob was choked out of the figure's throat as it raised its head. It was a girl, no more than twelve years old, with the same pale features as the bodies on either side of her. Trembling, she flexed her grip on the pieces of clothing, but did not let go. After a moment, she released the male's shirt and waved her hand over him until she encounted something hard and smooth. Her shaking increased as she jerked her slender hand back.

 

The shadows sensed an opportunity, and rushed forward. The girl's head went up, and teary purple eyes flickered with something that could only be known as rage.

 

"Back!" she cried. Her voice shook, but did not crack. "Back! You cannot have them!" As the shadows retreated, she lowered her head so her hair covered her face once more. "They are mine," she whispered. "You cannot take them..." She drew in a shuddering breath and stood. She was small, and certainly not threatening, but for once, the shadows did not move.

 

After a moment of silence, a single transparent hand reached out to the female's body. The girl whirled around and said something in a voice that was not her own. An inhuman scream of pain rang in the air, and the hand vanished. The shadows moved back as the girl fell to her knees once more.

 

"I am the master now," she whispered. Her voice was hoarse, as if she had been screaming. She fought back a sob and looked up once more. "You will listen to me, shadows. They have passed the control to me. You will obey!"

 

The shadows moved back again.

 

She crossed her arms and hugged herself to stop herself from shaking. "I am the Child of Shadows," she said quietly, as if reciting something she had heard so many times, but had never had the chance to say. "But the shadows are not my friends." When she finally looked up, the shadows were gone...along with the bodies of her parents. She had lost her first battle against the beings she was supposed to control.

 

Weeping bitterly, she allowed the darkness to engulf her as well.

Can I do nothing right when it comes to instruments?

 

First, it's I don't practice enough. Then, it's you don't practice long enough. Then: "I tune the violin and you play it for thirty seconds!"

 

I never asked for you to tune the freakin' violin! I did it without being told. Why the hell isn't that good enough?

 

"You have to learn an instrument."

 

Now:

 

 

"You aren't taking lessons anymore."

 

MAKE UP YOUR MIND!

 

My friend yelled at me for not being able to talk. Two people who I really like to talk to had to get off because I had to play the violin. Usually, I don't mind, but in this case, I was told I had to quit. I finally find an instrument I like, and I had to quit.

 

Now? Oh, I'm still mad. I have violin lessons, but I'm still mad. Furious, actually. Afraid to go down stairs because I might rip someone's head off.

 

Oh, yeah, you tuned the violin, and I am grateful. I finished practicing all the music that I had, and it wasn't good enough!

 

Mom says play for ten minutes. Dad, for thirty.

 

Oh, I wonder why I haven't stuck to any instruments for more than two years.

 

It's a lose-lose situation. When it comes to comparing me to Kevin, I'm always the goody-two-shoes. When it comes to instruments, I'm the bad child who can't do anything right.

 

I'm sick of it.

I had a doctor's appointment this morning. I'm not feeling to great. I forgot my violin. I had a test today.

 

Guess what my dad decides to comment on?

 

The friken violin.

 

I get into the car, and the first thing I hear is, 'Well, let's go to violin lessons! I wish I brought a camera to watch you have a lesson without your violin!'

 

Oh, really great way to start an afternoon. I have a headache, I feel like I'm going to hurl, and the first thing I hear about is the violin.

 

My dad keeps on ranting about how I need to learn an instrument. He doesn't care which one, but he wants me to learn.

 

Yeah, yeah. I get it. What if I don't want to?

 

That would probably be unacceptable.

 

*hisses*

 

Only after I had fixed the violin problem did he start to ask 'are you okay, Sara?'

 

No, I'm not okay! I thought school and health came before music! God!

Recently, a friend sent me one of those BFF quizzes. You know, where you answer questions to see how well you really know the person. Once I could open the link, I stared at the questions and tried to figure out the answers. The result?

 

'You don't know me at all.'

 

Oops.

 

I've known this person for a little over a year, now. We get along well, and we have our differences...but I do consider her a really good friend.

 

So why the heck did I get the 'don't-know-me' answer?

 

Is it because my memory sucks? It's quite possible. I can't remember a name, or a favorite color to save my life.

 

Is it because I don't pay attention?

 

Eh, possible. Not likely, but possible.

 

Is it because some of the answers to the questions -like your favorite crush, pet peeve, favorite snacks and color- change?

 

I know mine do.

 

Still, is that what friendship is about? In order to be a good friend, do you have to know all this stuff? Do you have to know everything about that person? Isn't the fun part of having a friend learning new stuff about them?

 

I don't know. And my head hurts from thinking about it. But I never thought that friendship was about favorite colors, or knowing everything...I always thought it was more about two people who get along, and can rely on each other. You don't really need to know everything about each other in order to accomplish that.

 

Just something to think about. Night!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

---

 

This is based on an actual incident that I looked up. It did happen on the 9th. But please try to remember this is fiction, and so, not all of it is true. I may of even exaggerated a few things. The article was found here: lhttp://www.wral.com/apworldnews/6880279/detail.html. That was my only source.

 

My gradual decline from his favor started long before he became obsessed, I believe. Truth be told, it was my fault. I didn't let the boy get what he wanted.

 

Mind, in doing this, I helped him survive. Yet another reason for my low status -he never wanted to live in the first place.

 

Apparently, an old warrior like myself doesn't get any thanks for helping.

 

I'm still not quite sure why I helped the boy in the first place. Perhaps it was pity, understanding, or just plain hope that he was the leader I looked for. Half-drow as he was, he had the temper to match any dwarf's, and some skill with black-smithing. Even without knowing anything about him, I could tell he would do anything for someone he cared about.

 

You might be confused, reader, by my reference to this strange 'he'. If you are human, it is very likely you have never heard of my former pupil. He planned to destroy you all, but instead, he ended up saving a human girl not so different from himself.

 

But, I am getting ahead of myself. My job is merely to record the old him, so that he does not become lost under the many layers that form this cold, hardened elf.

 

I first met him many, many years before, as I prevented him from killing himself, although it wasn't by 'cutting' or any other vile ways you humans use nowadays. You see, attacking a group of hardened, armed knights who's only goal in life was to kill all elves would have been suicide. After the boy had kneed me in a rather sensitive area, swore quite profoundly at me and nearly killed me with his spear, he finally calmed down. At this point, I was irritated, and would have been happy to let him go...save for the curiousity that will one day be the downfall of us all.

 

"Where did you learn to swear like that, lad?" I asked the now-limp youngster. He glanced up me with irritated silver eyes. I spoke only a little elvish, and the little I knew was nearly uncomprehensible because of a thick, burly accent.

 

"My mother," he mumbled. He had a light, slightly reedy voice that was filled with some despair.

 

My eyebrows lifted into my just-graying hair. "Really? How interesting..where is she now?"

 

"Dead." This was sobbed out; the younger lad was not afraid of showing emotions. Strange how things can change..."All of them are! Let me go!"

 

The struggle began anew, and I was hard-pressed to keep a good grip on the boy before he killed me to get to the men. I couldn't blame him; my family had also been killed by humans, and I had once felt the same things he felt now. Only I had not been filled with a killing rage that was common in both drows and dwarves. Instead, I had felt an incredible amount of sadness, and the urge to curl up and die.

 

After the boy had once again discovered he could not quite get away, he slumped down once again."Let me go," he said, begging this time. I shook my head and pulled him up.

 

"Killing isn't the answer, lad. Come with me, and we'll write a letter to your people. Maybe they'll take you in."

 

Some hope flickered in his eyes. "You think so?"

 

I chose not to answer. In the end, his hopes were crushed. I trained him to be our leader, and as I did, he started to get the crazy thought that killing truly was the answer.

 

But, dear reader, I do not tell you about that. My job is merely to tell of my old friend, Henuki.

You know, when I first got the news, I got upset. I interupted someone in the middle of a conversation, and get yelled at for it. That didn't help anything. Being told to apologize to the person I had interupted like I was a five-year-old also didn't help. Once the people were done with the conversation, I started to cry.

 

How pathetic.

 

All I wanted to do was call my mom to ask her to pick me up early. You see, I basically got told by the boy I tutor that I wasn't tutoring him anymore. Add this to my growing pile of stress -cantering Sunday, make-up science test, reading for funeral, funeral itself, homework, and finding clothes for funeral- and you might understand why I was upset. I ask the secretary of the school to call my mom, and the next thing I know, she is telling my mom that I am crying, that I interupted a conversation -ever noticed that adults don't get scolded for that?- and that I thought I had been fired. Frankly, I still think I was fired. But... they still owe me eighty dollars.

 

As for now? Well, I'm just angry. Heck, I'm furious. I would like to be told and paid by an adult when I no longer have a job.

 

Least I get some free time back.*Scowls*

The court yard, surprisingly, was not that full, considering the king's funeral had just ended. In fact, it was nearly empty. Only one figure stood, right next to the new grave, his dark brown attire looking almost ash gray because of the clouded sky. His clothes were travel worn, for although it seemed like they had once been black, they had been turned almost maroon-colored because of the dust. His black leather boots where worn and faded, and his hair stook nearly straight up. Either he didn't put much care in his appearence, or he had just arrived.

 

Seeing as he was the king's messenger, I would go with the second option. But, of course, no one had seen him arrive. That was what he was good at, he reflected bitterly, arriving in silence.

 

He studied the grave for a moment before turning on his heel and walking off. He was not truly a handsome man; he appeared to be in his late thirties, but a certain weary cast to his dark eyes, and the worry lines etched around his mouth and forehead suggested he was older. His skin had the waxen quality of one who was rarely out in the sun, and his face was long and narrow, with cheekbones that gave him a slightly...unearthly look. However, he could look quite striking if he was mad, feeling vain, or, perhaps, if he ever had a break.

 

Those breaks seemed to have happened less and less. Although Leias -for that was his name- had been the king's messenger for over a thousand years, he always found the rush after the king's death stunning. This time, it was even more so, for the king had left no heir. All the nobles had sent Leias off to find the history of each's family, to see if they could inherit it. More than once he had had to use his odd power of being in two places at once to complete all his tasks.

 

"Leias!"

 

The mage turned and watched a young servant girl approach him, noticing that she was waving a paper in her hand. She stopped before him and handed it to him, then placed her hand on her knees and attempted to catch her breath.

 

"Will...of...king," she managed to gasp. "Wanted...you...to see..."

 

He frowned. "Why me? Shouldn't this go to-"

 

"No! Said...to you..."

 

"To me, then..." He frowned and studied the paper, his eyes slowly starting to widen. "You've got to be kidding."

You know how many days we've had at home for this two-week vacation?

 

About three.

 

Dad recently said 'our vacation is coming to a close'. What vacation, may I ask? You call driving around, and doing most things for others a vacation? I feel like I just left school!

 

Want to know how many Christmas decorations we have up? I think I counted two, not including the Christmas lights we've had up for a year now.

 

I wasn't prepared for the holidays. Heck, I wasn't prepared for vacation. And I'm certainly not prepared for school.

 

We don't even have a friken Christmas tree! And that's one of the basics....

 

I just feel like I want to scream. I feel like I'm just prepared to upend my life once again and give it a good shake. Why can't things be back to normal?

 

Oh, and for those of you who know that I've spent most of the day on the internet and playing the neopets game, I would like to point out the suitcases in the same room that are still fully packed.

 

I think we're still waiting to go. Just waiting for a call. I can't even take being hectic today. Its like I'm....so accursedly tense. I can't handle anything. I'm just waiting to jump up...

 

But I've said that already, haven't I?

 

I like peace. I like quiet. I like my sanity. This vacation, I haven't had peace. My quiet was when I was alone. And my sanity? That went away two months ago.

 

My dad suggested taking away the internet and games tommorrow, because that's what my brother and I have been using all day. *points outside to pouring rain* He suggested we read. Okay, I can manage that...for four hours. A day is a bit much. And what else is there to do? You can't go play in the rain....

 

That's a completely different subject; one that I shouldn't go into. Anyways, I am going to go take a bath and...whaddya know; read! Maybe then I'll get my peace, my quiet, and my sanity back...

 

Talk to you later...

Interesting how you let out all your frustration on one point.

 

For example: I got in a fight with a friend. She had proposed this playdate, I suppose you could say, earlier. Tonight, she joked that I couldn't come. I got a bit mad.

 

Want some more explanation? Here's my side of the story: she had really pressured me about this playdate. She had been mad when I said I couldn't come, because I had to stay with my grandma, then go to LA. I got upset, and we arranged a different date. But she really wanted that playdate, so I was offended when I thought she didn't want to do it. I mean, I planned it months in advance, which is something I never  do. And plus, there's all this stuff with my grandma, who has been choking, and may have a sickness. We're not sure she'll get out of the hospital.

 

Not that I tell anyone this. Its something I have to deal with on my own. Or...so I thought. Apparently, though, I don't completely think that, because I'm writing it here.

 

Let me give you a brief description of my Chrismas Eve: shivering, coughing, panicking, sneezing, not being able to eat much...things like that.

 

Grandma spent her's in the hospital.

 

You know, Kaggr, I envy you. Having it happen suddenly is better than watching someone suffer.