I realize that I have not updated this blog in nearly two months. I apologize for this, but there is a reason for it. People generally find it hard to write while suffering from seemingly endless, crippling depression. All of this focus on my past has dredged up things that I would prefer not to think about. The dreams are too much. I can't... concentrate. Every time I type, I keep seeing that empty face. It haunts me. WHEN WILL IT END?
No... I need to pull myself together. I can't let these flashbacks get to me. My story needs to be told. I need solace. I need hope. Moreover, I want the world to know; to understand. There has to be a way to beat this thing. Even if the horror never stops, somebody has to know.
Okay, so I'll continue. I didn't really want to leave that bench, but it was getting late. I didn't want to give my babysitter any reason to contact my parents, provided that she grew competent enough to do so, which, admittedly, wasn't completely unlikely.
I walked home, trying to stave off the breeze by stuffing my hands into the pockets of my light jacket, and shivering wildly upon noticing that it didn't work. I opened the door to a partially unexpected rant from the night's pseudo-parent. I shrugged it off, only to be uncomfortably consoled for my rather obvious anguish. I made some stupid comment about how I wouldn't be so depressed if I had a babysitter who would get off of her lazy ass enough to talk to me every once in a while, and went to bed without a word. The sound of her retorts echoed down the hall as I struggled to ignore her.
I was extremely tired, but I couldn't sleep. Suddenly, it came to my attention that I never ate my candy. I must have been so frightened that I forgot about them. So, having nothing else to do, I nibbled idly on a Mars bar, and stared up at the ceiling for the remainder of the night.
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