Creative Writing Central

I don't really like talking too much about myself, but since you’ve asked so directly, then yes—I've always enjoyed writing, and Italian, with all its nuances, has fascinated me ever since elementary school.
For a long time now, I've been keeping a notebook where I jot down some of my thoughts and feelings, often tied to childhood memories and, inevitably, the past.
Sometimes I also reflect on the present, always in an introspective and nostalgic tone, often with a touch of irony.
Writing, for me, has always been a tool that helps me relax and maintain a critical view of myself—something I consider essential for learning from my mistakes and shaping a path of personal growth...
 
I love writing but I'm my own worst enemy when it comes to keeping my relationship with the medium healthy and consistent. I wrote a historical fiction novel 7 years ago about members of the Polish Resistance in WW2 and have been putting off writing a second draft ever since, despite getting an amazing professional editor to do an editorial letter and structural/line editing (!) for me for free and telling me I should find an agent...Then a few years ago during a very hard personal time, I wrote almost compulsively as a sort of therapy, but almost never worked on the novel. I have a really unhealthy avoidant relationship with things that I love or are good for me--I have a feeling that I'm avoiding the novel because it feels too right, or something. I think I'm afraid of being happy or something, lol. I sure did write a lot of fanfiction around that time, though, haha...

Now that I'm about to leave my current career of almost 15 years, I keep telling myself I should go back to writing since I'll have relative financial freedom to do so and can finally try to publish my novel... but I'm back to the pipedream of game development, as games are another medium I also love to use to tell stories. Lately I've been having fun writing the script. (If anyone played my stupid RPG Maker game from the 2012, it's the continuation same Oathguard story I've been working on for like 20 years haha).

Speaking of embarrassing writing-related hobbies, I also hilariously recently finished a Shadow Hearts fanfic that had basically been on my mind since I played the game in high school. That was weirdly cathartic. No one will read it because it's a dead fandom (RIP Shadow Hearts and Pennyblood ::sadkirby), but I'm really satisfied with it. Now I'd like to finish a Legend of Korra story I started about 10 years ago now that was really fun to write because it was a comedy--I can still read through it and get a laugh (at my own jokes, yes lol). I started to continue it a few years ago, but then stopped. A recent comment made me realize I should finish it for the people who still want to read it, and because it was legitimately fun to write.
 
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I have a really unhealthy avoidant relationship with things that I love or are good for me--I have a feeling that I'm avoiding the novel because it feels too right, or something.
The classic 'fear of success', I know it all to well. Shit sucks, but you got to push through.

Oh, and there's nothing embarrassing about fanfics to me unless it's something on the tier of My Immortal.
 
I love writing but I'm my own worst enemy when it comes to keeping my relationship with the medium healthy and consistent. I wrote a historical fiction novel 7 years ago about members of the Polish Resistance in WW2 and have been putting off writing a second draft ever since, despite getting an amazing professional editor to do an editorial letter and structural/line editing (!) for me for free and telling me I should find an agent...Then a few years ago during a very hard personal time, I wrote almost compulsively as a sort of therapy, but almost never worked on the novel. I have a really unhealthy avoidant relationship with things that I love or are good for me--I have a feeling that I'm avoiding the novel because it feels too right, or something. I think I'm afraid of being happy or something, lol. I sure did write a lot of fanfiction around that time, though, haha.

Relatable.
My problem is the lack of self discipline, but i think that what i do is not really anything special, so it doesn't matter to much at the end.
 
I have two unfinished articles that supposed to be posted here but I’m stuck halfway through both of them!
I'm bad with that too, I wish I had only two I was stuck on. I find just taking a break from it for like a day or two and working on other stuff then coming back to it helps me.
 
I often lay rock-solid foundations for my pieces, then spend weeks trying to build upon them.

It's the struggle that makes them sweeter, I guess.
I do about the same, usually it's not quite weeks for me but there's a few I've been juggling that definitely have been that long. I usually do them in phases sort of, shotgun out my notes for one to start then do the written intro, let it rest for a day or so to see how I feel about it then add on to that and go from there, going over everything previously written as I go. It's not the most efficient system and is probably why I work on too many things at once, but it works for me, mostly.
 
I do about the same, usually it's not quite weeks for me but there's a few I've been juggling that definitely have been that long. I usually do them in phases sort of, shotgun out my notes for one to start then do the written intro, let it rest for a day or so to see how I feel about it then add on to that and go from there, going over everything previously written as I go. It's not the most efficient system and is probably why I work on too many things at once, but it works for me, mostly.
I'm glad it works for you. I love your stuff, man.

Once I have exactly the pieces I need, I sit down and get everything written on one single, feverish session. I love the feeling.
 
This is something I wrote and I honestly don't know what to do with. It's raw -- it has been subjected to very little editing, and may still contain one or two typos. I'm also not sure it makes sense? All I know is that I felt immediate relief after writing it and that I'm treating like a live grenade:

We all have moments we are afraid to face even as distance gives us the illusion of safety. Moments so raw as to resemble narrowly-avoided icebergs set on a collision course of cosmic scale with the ship we are trying to put to sea, scarring its side with enough force to shake it, keeping it afloat just long enough as to learn from it.

I call the year 2008 The Summer Of Not.

It was a period when I felt like a bird of clipped wings, bound by jewel-incrusted chains and vanished to a crystal cage by people I had come to see as oppressors — but who had only the best intentions in mind and heart, as I had already begun drifting, silently, off course.

I remember how I was stripped of everything they had come to see as dangerous — how I was completely cut off from the internet, how I wasn't allowed anything but the bare minimum time on a phone so ancient as to result more of a tease than a tool; how even that was limited with a laughable data plan that ran out as soon as you sneezed near it.

It was a tracking device disguised as freedom.

But then, even the most secure of cages allow for a measure of air, and so I began replacing the electronic worlds I had so readily inhabited by something more physical, as if tearing through the walls of my own containment to build something new, brave and powerful. Because, you see, I was sent to my grandma's isolated house to complete my detox, and she was the proud owner of a huge library — a library I had come to see as mere decoration at a younger age, but that now presented itself as the ultimate escape through spines harder than my own, engraved in legendary names that even the critically ignorant me knew by heart: the likes of Agatha Christie, Barbara Wood, Rona Jaffe, Ken Follett and Stephen King giving me wings and song once more.

Soon, my routine began changing. What had begun as a tired resignation soon turned into a marathoning effort to keep these new feelings in and lingering. The only real barrier now present was the one imposed physically by my mind, suddenly crushed under the sheer weight of reading that soothed and strained it all at once, in a way completely foreign to it — a machine that had been oiled to crush facts and dates into fine dust until they were no longer needed, now tasked with keeping story beats and plot points burned into its walls. I was also restrained by my eyes as they struggled to adapt — going from bright screens, dark backgrounds and glowing letters to fine print on yellowish pages.

But even sick birds seek the sky, and at one point I felt the absolute need to do something — anything — that would give me back some meaning, even if it meant chewing through the chain just to fill my lungs not with smoke like before, but with an air so thin as to make me lighter than everything bounding me to the ground.

There was no moment where I could just feel a shift. I just crashed uselessly against the panes of my glass enclosure until it gave — specks of blood and shards of transparent bars flying out as I could begin to feel what being my own person was once more, rejoining a world that had coldly ignored my absence as if I had never even been there.

And so began a war of echoes in the dark — of my own boots splashing against cold pavement, trying to drown out the constant buzz of my phone, this personal radar meant to keep me within sight without ever physically fighting me. Of me letting my mind wander through dark forests and quaint little villages that could only exist between the covers of a novel whilst my own story was being drawn up by a leaking pen connected to a shaky hand that was still too afraid of turning the page.

But the cold, hard fact is that time runs out. Every line is final, even if we don't mean it to be. And there are just so many corrections we can make to a paper before it rips. My story was imperfect because it was never meant to be otherwise — and I'm fine with that. A story that plays neatly from beginning to end may sound wonderful, but it's hardly ever satisfying — like betting on a rigged race or skipping to the ending, then pretending to be shocked by what happens next.

Things can never be simple. Not for me, not for the world at large. Something like a full recovery would have compromised the lesson here, and the lingering, throbbing pain provides just enough of a reminder to guarantee that it won't be forgotten. After all, scars tell stories.
 
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This is something I wrote and I honestly don't know what to do with. It's raw -- it has been subjected to very little editing, and may still contain one or two typos. I'm also not sure it makes sense? All I know is that I felt immediate relief after writing it and that I'm treating like a live grenade:

We all have moments we are afraid to face even as distance gives us the illusion of safety. Moments so raw as to resemble narrowly avoided icebergs set on a collision course of cosmic scale with the ship we are trying to put to sea, scarring its side with enough force to shake it, keeping it afloat just long enough as to learn from it.

I call the year 2008 The Summer Of Not.

It was a period when I felt like a bird of clipped wings, bound by jewel-incrusted chains and vanished to a crystal cage by people I had come to see as oppressors — but who had only the best intentions in mind and heart, as I had already begun drifting, silently, off course.

I remember how I was stripped of everything they had come to see as dangerous — how I was completely cut off from the internet, how I wasn't allowed anything but the bare minimum time on a phone so ancient as to result more of a tease than a tool; how even that was limited with a laughable data plan that ran out as soon as you sneezed near it.

It was a tracking device disguised as freedom.

But then, even the most secure of cages allow for a measure of air, and so I began replacing the electronic worlds I had so readily inhabited by something more physical, as if tearing through the walls of my own containment to build something new, brave and powerful. Because, you see, I was sent to my grandma's isolated house to complete my detox, and she was the proud owner of a huge library — a library I had come to see as mere decoration at a younger age, but that now presented itself as the ultimate escape through spines harder than my own, engraved in legendary names that even the critically ignorant me knew by heart: the likes of Agatha Christie, Barbara Wood, Rona Jaffe, Ken Follett and Stephen King giving me wings and song once more.

Soon, my routine began changing. What had begun as a tired resignation soon turned into a marathoning effort to keep these new feelings in and lingering. The only real barrier now present was the one imposed physically by my mind, suddenly crushed under the sheer weight of reading that soothed and strained it all at once, in a way completely foreign to it — a machine that had been oiled to crush facts and dates into fine dust until they were no longer needed, now tasked with keeping story beats and plot points burned into its walls. I was also restrained by my eyes as they struggled to adapt — going from bright screens, dark backgrounds and glowing letters to fine print on yellowish pages.

But even sick birds seek the sky, and at one point I felt the absolute need to do something — anything — that would give me back some meaning, even if it meant chewing through the chain just to fill my lungs not with smoke like before, but with an air so thin as to make me lighter than everything bounding me to the ground.

There was no moment where I could just feel a shift. I just crashed uselessly against the panes of my glass enclosure until it gave — specks of blood and shards of transparent bars flying out as I could begin to feel what being my own person was once more, rejoining a world that had coldly ignored my absence as if I had never been there.

And so began a war of echoes in the dark — of my own boots splashing against cold pavement, trying to drown out the constant buzz of my phone, this personal radar meant to keep me within sight without ever physically fighting me. Of me letting my mind wander through dark forests and quaint little villages that could only exist between the covers of a novel whilst my own story was being drawn up by a leaking pen connected to a shaky hand that was still too afraid of turning the page.

But the cold, hard fact is that time runs out. Every line is final, even if we don't mean it to be. And there are just so many corrections we can make to a paper before it rips. My story was imperfect because it was never meant to be otherwise — and I'm fine with that. A story that plays neatly from beginning to end may sound wonderful, but it's hardly ever satisfying — like betting on a rigged race or skipping to the ending, then pretending to be shocked by what happens next.

Things can never be simple. Not for me, not for the world at large. Something like a full recovery would have compromised the lesson here, and the lingering, throbbing pain provides just enough of a reminder to guarantee that it won't be forgotten. After all, scars tell stories.
I loved that man, you have a really good style with this kind of personal poetic reminiscing. Great imagery, and it has some great flow. It makes sense enough to get the emotion of it, that isn't an issue at all.
 
I'm a want-to-be writer.
Want to be cause I haven't finished anything yet.

The reason why I want to be a writer, when I was young, let's long story short, my parents didn't like each other, and I was broke, so my only distraction was the dumb fanficy stories in my head.

Most of my writing is inspired by things I hate or don't like about how they were done.

Why?

I grew up on the age of YouTube, where each review was "This is bad, so I yell." But I want to understand why something is bad and make it better. Note I'm not so up my own asshole to say fix but only make better to my own tastes.

I can easily look at a broken cloak and say, "Wow, it's broken," and yell at it, but it takes a whole different set of skills to see a broken cloak, explain why it is broken, and think up a way to fix it.

Simply put, I'm an overthinker, so I write. My brain is always on zoomie mode.

I'm a very busy person, so it's hard for me to put thoughts on paper. I always need to hurry to the next life event I need to attend. I hope one day I learn to relax.
 
Don't know if anyone will like it, so enjoy, I guess?
The rain was relentless that day, a ceaseless symphony of drops hammering against the glass and pounding into the earth. It felt like the sky itself was weeping in tandem with my broken heart, each droplet echoing the pounding in my chest. Outside my bedroom window, the world blurred into a watercolor mess colors smeared and running, streets and trees dissolving into a wet, weeping canvas. I sat curled on the floor, the cheap, scratchy carpet pressing against my cheek like a gritty comfort, grounding me in this quiet, lonely space. My fingers traced the worn pattern of the fabric beneath me, a maze I knew by heart just like the endless corridors of shame and self-loathing that twisted through my mind, never letting me go.

It was a Tuesday, I think. Or maybe it was a Wednesday. Honestly, all the days blurred together into a dull, gray haze. But Tuesdays? Tuesdays were the worst. Mondays still carried the promise of a new week, a blank slate that I could pretend might be different, better. But by Tuesday by the time the world had settled into its usual rhythm the disappointment seeped in, thick and familiar, coloring everything with a hopeless hue. The weekend was a distant memory, and the week ahead stretched out like an infinite corridor, dark and unending.

From somewhere down the hall, I could hear the muffled murmur of my parents’ voices. They talked in hushed, hurried tones an undercurrent of worry and frustration that I knew was always about me. "She just needs to try harder," my mother would say, her voice strained, carrying the weight of exhaustion and hope misplaced. "She needs to be more... normal." The word itself felt like a stone lodged in my throat, heavy and suffocating. What was normal? Was it the perfect outfits that the girls in the hall whispered about, their giggles sharp and cruel? Or the boys who tossed footballs and traded insults with a confidence I could never grasp? Was it their easy smiles, their effortless laughter, that I’d never quite manage to mimic?

I tried. God, I tried so hard. I practiced smiling in front of the mirror until my cheeks ached, trying to manufacture a happiness I didn’t feel. I mimicked their clothes, their hairstyles, even their laughter hoping, desperately, that if I could just fake it long enough, I might belong somewhere, anywhere. But it always backfired. My smile was too wide, too desperate. My clothes looked awkward, like I’d borrowed someone else’s costume. My laughter sounded hollow, a faint echo of something real, something I’d never quite find. It was never enough.

They called me “weirdo” “freak” “goth slut” They said I was too quiet, too intense, too much. But mostly, they ignored me. As if I were invisible just a ghost drifting through their sunlit world, a shadow they refused to notice. Sometimes I wondered if I even existed to them, or if I was just an interruption, a blip on their perfect, sun-drenched radar.

Lunch was a daily gauntlet. The cafeteria, with its blinding fluorescent lights and cacophony of noise, felt like a battlefield where I was constantly on the losing side. I’d sit alone, hunched over my tray, poking at the lukewarm food that no one really wanted. Sometimes, cruel hands would throw crumpled napkins or whisper insults under their breath, like a game they played at my expense. Once, someone dumped a carton of cold milk over my head. The cold liquid dripped down my face, blurring my vision, as everyone’s laughter echoed around me laughter that I learned to tune out, to pretend didn’t exist. I just sat there, numb, the icy milk pooling in my lap, feeling the shame seep into my bones.

The teachers? They either didn’t notice or chose not to see. I was just another quiet girl, blending into the background easily overlooked, easily forgotten. I wasn’t causing trouble. I wasn’t loud enough to matter. So I faded further into the shadows, the invisible ghost that haunted the hallways of their sunshine world.

That Tuesday, after the milk incident, I slipped out during the last period, slipping past the watchful eyes that never truly saw me. I walked home alone, rain pouring down in heavy sheets, the cold seeping into my skin and bones. The world outside looked just as broken as I felt inside gray, forlorn, and crying with me. Each droplet seemed to echo the ache inside my chest, a mirror of my despair.

Back in my room, the rain kept falling, relentless and unyielding. I opened my window, letting the damp, cold air fill the space, a shiver crawling up my spine. I leaned out, gazing down at the blurry world below streets, trees, distant figures all smudged and indistinct. It looked so far away, so peaceful in its silent sorrow. For a moment, I imagined I could melt into it, dissolve into the rain and be carried away somewhere far anywhere but here.

On my cluttered desk sat an full pill bottle my mother’s sleeping pills. She struggled with insomnia, another weight I felt I carried, a secret darkness shared between us. I picked up the bottle, shaking it gently, listening to the faint rattle inside a sound that echoed the echoes of my own fading hope. Oblivion beckoned, sweet and tempting.

It wasn’t a decision born out of anger or defiance. It was just exhaustion an ache so deep that I didn’t know how to carry it anymore. I was tired of trying, tired of failing, tired of feeling invisible, like I didn’t matter at all. I closed my eyes, the rain splattering against my face like tears, and I imagined myself floating weightless, free from the relentless noise, the crushing expectations, the loneliness.

But then a flicker. A spark of something buried deep inside. A memory my grandmother’s gentle hand holding mine, her voice soft and warm as she told me stories of constellations and dreams. She used to say I had a light inside me, a spark that could someday illuminate the darkest night. Her words echoed faintly now, almost drowned in the storm inside me.

The light felt so dim, so nearly extinguished. But it was still there tiny, flickering, like a fragile ember hidden deep in the ashes. A whisper of hope I’d almost forgotten.

With trembling hands, I put the pill bottle back on the desk. I closed the window, shutting out the rain, the darkness, and the pain. I curled back onto the floor, the gritty carpet pressing against my cheek once more. The storm raged outside, and inside, the pounding in my chest gradually eased, settling into a quiet ache.

I didn’t wake up feeling happy or enlightened. The world outside still wasn’t colorful or kind. The pain was still there a dull, persistent ache in my soul. But something had shifted just a tiny crack in the wall of despair, a fragile opening for hope to creep through. Maybe tomorrow wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe, just maybe, I could find a way to hold on a little longer.
 
Don't know if anyone will like it, so enjoy, I guess?
The rain was relentless that day, a ceaseless symphony of drops hammering against the glass and pounding into the earth. It felt like the sky itself was weeping in tandem with my broken heart, each droplet echoing the pounding in my chest. Outside my bedroom window, the world blurred into a watercolor mess colors smeared and running, streets and trees dissolving into a wet, weeping canvas. I sat curled on the floor, the cheap, scratchy carpet pressing against my cheek like a gritty comfort, grounding me in this quiet, lonely space. My fingers traced the worn pattern of the fabric beneath me, a maze I knew by heart just like the endless corridors of shame and self-loathing that twisted through my mind, never letting me go.

It was a Tuesday, I think. Or maybe it was a Wednesday. Honestly, all the days blurred together into a dull, gray haze. But Tuesdays? Tuesdays were the worst. Mondays still carried the promise of a new week, a blank slate that I could pretend might be different, better. But by Tuesday by the time the world had settled into its usual rhythm the disappointment seeped in, thick and familiar, coloring everything with a hopeless hue. The weekend was a distant memory, and the week ahead stretched out like an infinite corridor, dark and unending.

From somewhere down the hall, I could hear the muffled murmur of my parents’ voices. They talked in hushed, hurried tones an undercurrent of worry and frustration that I knew was always about me. "She just needs to try harder," my mother would say, her voice strained, carrying the weight of exhaustion and hope misplaced. "She needs to be more... normal." The word itself felt like a stone lodged in my throat, heavy and suffocating. What was normal? Was it the perfect outfits that the girls in the hall whispered about, their giggles sharp and cruel? Or the boys who tossed footballs and traded insults with a confidence I could never grasp? Was it their easy smiles, their effortless laughter, that I’d never quite manage to mimic?

I tried. God, I tried so hard. I practiced smiling in front of the mirror until my cheeks ached, trying to manufacture a happiness I didn’t feel. I mimicked their clothes, their hairstyles, even their laughter hoping, desperately, that if I could just fake it long enough, I might belong somewhere, anywhere. But it always backfired. My smile was too wide, too desperate. My clothes looked awkward, like I’d borrowed someone else’s costume. My laughter sounded hollow, a faint echo of something real, something I’d never quite find. It was never enough.

They called me “weirdo” “freak” “goth slut” They said I was too quiet, too intense, too much. But mostly, they ignored me. As if I were invisible just a ghost drifting through their sunlit world, a shadow they refused to notice. Sometimes I wondered if I even existed to them, or if I was just an interruption, a blip on their perfect, sun-drenched radar.

Lunch was a daily gauntlet. The cafeteria, with its blinding fluorescent lights and cacophony of noise, felt like a battlefield where I was constantly on the losing side. I’d sit alone, hunched over my tray, poking at the lukewarm food that no one really wanted. Sometimes, cruel hands would throw crumpled napkins or whisper insults under their breath, like a game they played at my expense. Once, someone dumped a carton of cold milk over my head. The cold liquid dripped down my face, blurring my vision, as everyone’s laughter echoed around me laughter that I learned to tune out, to pretend didn’t exist. I just sat there, numb, the icy milk pooling in my lap, feeling the shame seep into my bones.

The teachers? They either didn’t notice or chose not to see. I was just another quiet girl, blending into the background easily overlooked, easily forgotten. I wasn’t causing trouble. I wasn’t loud enough to matter. So I faded further into the shadows, the invisible ghost that haunted the hallways of their sunshine world.

That Tuesday, after the milk incident, I slipped out during the last period, slipping past the watchful eyes that never truly saw me. I walked home alone, rain pouring down in heavy sheets, the cold seeping into my skin and bones. The world outside looked just as broken as I felt inside gray, forlorn, and crying with me. Each droplet seemed to echo the ache inside my chest, a mirror of my despair.

Back in my room, the rain kept falling, relentless and unyielding. I opened my window, letting the damp, cold air fill the space, a shiver crawling up my spine. I leaned out, gazing down at the blurry world below streets, trees, distant figures all smudged and indistinct. It looked so far away, so peaceful in its silent sorrow. For a moment, I imagined I could melt into it, dissolve into the rain and be carried away somewhere far anywhere but here.

On my cluttered desk sat an full pill bottle my mother’s sleeping pills. She struggled with insomnia, another weight I felt I carried, a secret darkness shared between us. I picked up the bottle, shaking it gently, listening to the faint rattle inside a sound that echoed the echoes of my own fading hope. Oblivion beckoned, sweet and tempting.

It wasn’t a decision born out of anger or defiance. It was just exhaustion an ache so deep that I didn’t know how to carry it anymore. I was tired of trying, tired of failing, tired of feeling invisible, like I didn’t matter at all. I closed my eyes, the rain splattering against my face like tears, and I imagined myself floating weightless, free from the relentless noise, the crushing expectations, the loneliness.

But then a flicker. A spark of something buried deep inside. A memory my grandmother’s gentle hand holding mine, her voice soft and warm as she told me stories of constellations and dreams. She used to say I had a light inside me, a spark that could someday illuminate the darkest night. Her words echoed faintly now, almost drowned in the storm inside me.

The light felt so dim, so nearly extinguished. But it was still there tiny, flickering, like a fragile ember hidden deep in the ashes. A whisper of hope I’d almost forgotten.

With trembling hands, I put the pill bottle back on the desk. I closed the window, shutting out the rain, the darkness, and the pain. I curled back onto the floor, the gritty carpet pressing against my cheek once more. The storm raged outside, and inside, the pounding in my chest gradually eased, settling into a quiet ache.

I didn’t wake up feeling happy or enlightened. The world outside still wasn’t colorful or kind. The pain was still there a dull, persistent ache in my soul. But something had shifted just a tiny crack in the wall of despair, a fragile opening for hope to creep through. Maybe tomorrow wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe, just maybe, I could find a way to hold on a little longer.
I liked it. I liked the imagery with the rain throughout, the comparison to other people as 'sun-drenched' and it carries the obviously very real emotion behind it well; the watercolour and canvas comparisons in the beginning was probably my favourite little bit. Thank you for sharing that, it's probably not easy to share personal and real works like that.
 
I liked it. I liked the imagery with the rain throughout, the comparison to other people as 'sun-drenched' and it carries the obviously very real emotion behind it well; the watercolour and canvas comparisons in the beginning was probably my favourite little bit. Thank you for sharing that, it's probably not easy to share personal and real works like that.
Thank you and yeah,... that was the easiest way I knew to show the wall between the MC and others. They say write what you know, and there is some truth in this story, more than I'm willing to admit.
 
Don't know if anyone will like it, so enjoy, I guess?
The rain was relentless that day, a ceaseless symphony of drops hammering against the glass and pounding into the earth. It felt like the sky itself was weeping in tandem with my broken heart, each droplet echoing the pounding in my chest. Outside my bedroom window, the world blurred into a watercolor mess colors smeared and running, streets and trees dissolving into a wet, weeping canvas. I sat curled on the floor, the cheap, scratchy carpet pressing against my cheek like a gritty comfort, grounding me in this quiet, lonely space. My fingers traced the worn pattern of the fabric beneath me, a maze I knew by heart just like the endless corridors of shame and self-loathing that twisted through my mind, never letting me go.

It was a Tuesday, I think. Or maybe it was a Wednesday. Honestly, all the days blurred together into a dull, gray haze. But Tuesdays? Tuesdays were the worst. Mondays still carried the promise of a new week, a blank slate that I could pretend might be different, better. But by Tuesday by the time the world had settled into its usual rhythm the disappointment seeped in, thick and familiar, coloring everything with a hopeless hue. The weekend was a distant memory, and the week ahead stretched out like an infinite corridor, dark and unending.

From somewhere down the hall, I could hear the muffled murmur of my parents’ voices. They talked in hushed, hurried tones an undercurrent of worry and frustration that I knew was always about me. "She just needs to try harder," my mother would say, her voice strained, carrying the weight of exhaustion and hope misplaced. "She needs to be more... normal." The word itself felt like a stone lodged in my throat, heavy and suffocating. What was normal? Was it the perfect outfits that the girls in the hall whispered about, their giggles sharp and cruel? Or the boys who tossed footballs and traded insults with a confidence I could never grasp? Was it their easy smiles, their effortless laughter, that I’d never quite manage to mimic?

I tried. God, I tried so hard. I practiced smiling in front of the mirror until my cheeks ached, trying to manufacture a happiness I didn’t feel. I mimicked their clothes, their hairstyles, even their laughter hoping, desperately, that if I could just fake it long enough, I might belong somewhere, anywhere. But it always backfired. My smile was too wide, too desperate. My clothes looked awkward, like I’d borrowed someone else’s costume. My laughter sounded hollow, a faint echo of something real, something I’d never quite find. It was never enough.

They called me “weirdo” “freak” “goth slut” They said I was too quiet, too intense, too much. But mostly, they ignored me. As if I were invisible just a ghost drifting through their sunlit world, a shadow they refused to notice. Sometimes I wondered if I even existed to them, or if I was just an interruption, a blip on their perfect, sun-drenched radar.

Lunch was a daily gauntlet. The cafeteria, with its blinding fluorescent lights and cacophony of noise, felt like a battlefield where I was constantly on the losing side. I’d sit alone, hunched over my tray, poking at the lukewarm food that no one really wanted. Sometimes, cruel hands would throw crumpled napkins or whisper insults under their breath, like a game they played at my expense. Once, someone dumped a carton of cold milk over my head. The cold liquid dripped down my face, blurring my vision, as everyone’s laughter echoed around me laughter that I learned to tune out, to pretend didn’t exist. I just sat there, numb, the icy milk pooling in my lap, feeling the shame seep into my bones.

The teachers? They either didn’t notice or chose not to see. I was just another quiet girl, blending into the background easily overlooked, easily forgotten. I wasn’t causing trouble. I wasn’t loud enough to matter. So I faded further into the shadows, the invisible ghost that haunted the hallways of their sunshine world.

That Tuesday, after the milk incident, I slipped out during the last period, slipping past the watchful eyes that never truly saw me. I walked home alone, rain pouring down in heavy sheets, the cold seeping into my skin and bones. The world outside looked just as broken as I felt inside gray, forlorn, and crying with me. Each droplet seemed to echo the ache inside my chest, a mirror of my despair.

Back in my room, the rain kept falling, relentless and unyielding. I opened my window, letting the damp, cold air fill the space, a shiver crawling up my spine. I leaned out, gazing down at the blurry world below streets, trees, distant figures all smudged and indistinct. It looked so far away, so peaceful in its silent sorrow. For a moment, I imagined I could melt into it, dissolve into the rain and be carried away somewhere far anywhere but here.

On my cluttered desk sat an full pill bottle my mother’s sleeping pills. She struggled with insomnia, another weight I felt I carried, a secret darkness shared between us. I picked up the bottle, shaking it gently, listening to the faint rattle inside a sound that echoed the echoes of my own fading hope. Oblivion beckoned, sweet and tempting.

It wasn’t a decision born out of anger or defiance. It was just exhaustion an ache so deep that I didn’t know how to carry it anymore. I was tired of trying, tired of failing, tired of feeling invisible, like I didn’t matter at all. I closed my eyes, the rain splattering against my face like tears, and I imagined myself floating weightless, free from the relentless noise, the crushing expectations, the loneliness.

But then a flicker. A spark of something buried deep inside. A memory my grandmother’s gentle hand holding mine, her voice soft and warm as she told me stories of constellations and dreams. She used to say I had a light inside me, a spark that could someday illuminate the darkest night. Her words echoed faintly now, almost drowned in the storm inside me.

The light felt so dim, so nearly extinguished. But it was still there tiny, flickering, like a fragile ember hidden deep in the ashes. A whisper of hope I’d almost forgotten.

With trembling hands, I put the pill bottle back on the desk. I closed the window, shutting out the rain, the darkness, and the pain. I curled back onto the floor, the gritty carpet pressing against my cheek once more. The storm raged outside, and inside, the pounding in my chest gradually eased, settling into a quiet ache.

I didn’t wake up feeling happy or enlightened. The world outside still wasn’t colorful or kind. The pain was still there a dull, persistent ache in my soul. But something had shifted just a tiny crack in the wall of despair, a fragile opening for hope to creep through. Maybe tomorrow wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe, just maybe, I could find a way to hold on a little longer.
There is nothing worse than someone making you doubt your integrity, trying to extinguish that "light" your grandmother used to speak of while holding your hand... Especially when those enemies are hidden within your own family—those very people who conceived and raised you, and in whom you placed your blind trust as a child.
This leads you not only to doubt yourself but also to doubt others, and the way you see things and the world.
The natural antidepressant that some of us rely on as a shield against the harshness of life is called the joy of living—nothing more, nothing less... And those who don't have it, but are clever enough to recognize it in us, often envy it to the point of hating us.
If this testimony of yours reflects, as I believe, a personal experience, then I’ve lived it too—just like many others—and, like you, I came out of it with my head held high.
One antidote is writing itself, as it helps us get to know ourselves better, our strengths and weaknesses. Sure, there are also many excellent psychotherapists out there, but they’re especially useful for those who can’t (or aren’t able to) look within, overwhelmed by the judgment of others. But I’m sure these are things you already know…
 
There is nothing worse than someone making you doubt your integrity, trying to extinguish that "light" your grandmother used to speak of while holding your hand... Especially when those enemies are hidden within your own family—those very people who conceived and raised you, and in whom you placed your blind trust as a child.
This leads you not only to doubt yourself but also to doubt others, and the way you see things and the world.
The natural antidepressant that some of us rely on as a shield against the harshness of life is called the joy of living—nothing more, nothing less... And those who don't have it, but are clever enough to recognize it in us, often envy it to the point of hating us.
If this testimony of yours reflects, as I believe, a personal experience, then I’ve lived it too—just like many others—and, like you, I came out of it with my head held high.
One antidote is writing itself, as it helps us get to know ourselves better, our strengths and weaknesses. Sure, there are also many excellent psychotherapists out there, but they’re especially useful for those who can’t (or aren’t able to) look within, overwhelmed by the judgment of others. But I’m sure these are things you already know…
Like I said, there's more truth in it than I'm willing to admit, and thank you.
From what you said here, I can tell you know where the story is coming from.
 
I have been goofing around with this for a bit now.
And I think I am done with it or at least as done as it will ever get.
I hope someone enjoys this.
Thank you for reading.

The bus screeched to a halt, its wheezing brakes announcing my arrival to yet another town. Another fresh start. Or so I hoped. Stepping off, the familiar ache of loneliness settled deep in my bones, a constant companion for centuries. The air in this new place was thick with the scent of damp earth and something else something metallic and faintly sweet that made my fangs ache.

I pulled my worn leather jacket tighter, the collar scratching against the sensitive skin of my neck. My reflection stared back from the darkened windows of the bus... a pale, almost translucent face framed by choppy brown hair. Even after all this time, I still looked like a teenager forever frozen in that awkward stage between childhood and adulthood.

My name doesn’t matter. Names are fleeting, insignificant whispers in the grand scheme of eternity. I’ve had so many, each a temporary mask to blend in, to disappear when things inevitably went wrong. I’d learned long ago that identity was a fleeting thing, a fragile shell that could shatter at any moment.

This time, I’d chosen a small town nestled beneath towering mountains. Quiet, unassuming, perfect for hiding away where secrets could be buried beneath layers of fog and silence. My gothic look suited the place... dilapidated Victorian houses with peeling paint and crooked fences, streets cloaked in mist and mystery. It was a perfect stage for my own personal tragedy a place I hoped would be different, where I could finally find some semblance of peace.

I found a room in a crumbling boarding house run by a sweet, elderly woman named Mrs. Hawthorne. Her eyes were milky with age, yet her smile was genuine, her hands warm as she handed me the key to room number seven. For a moment, I allowed myself to feel a spark of hope. Maybe, just maybe, this time could be different.

The town’s college was a hulking concrete monstrosity, a fortress of hormones and desperation. It was a far cry from the grand libraries and lush ballrooms I once inhabited in my long, tangled history. But it was a necessary facade an act I played out with quiet, calculated patience. college was a breeding ground for innocence and vulnerability, and I was the thing lurking in the shadows, observing from the darkness.

I tried to be invisible, to keep to myself. I haunted the library, burying myself in dusty tomes and ancient texts, searching for answers anything that could explain this curse that had haunted me for centuries. But the silence was often broken by murmurs, rustling pages, and the faint sighs of loneliness that echoed through the quiet stacks. Each sound was a siren call to the dormant monster within me, threatening to wake and take control.

Then I met her.

Her name was Sarah. She was everything I wasn’t. Bright, vibrant, full of life. Her fiery red hair cascaded over her shoulders, freckles dotted her nose, and her eyes sparkled with a fire of life, something long extinguished in myself. She was sunshine personified a stark contrast to my shadowed existence and I was inexplicably drawn to her light like a moth to a flame.

Sarah saw past my guarded exterior, past the brooding silence I cloaked myself in. She saw something else something vulnerable and wounded and she was determined to heal it. She’d leave notes in my locker small drawings of fantastical creatures, sketches of stars and moons, little notes with encouraging words. She’d always offer a smile in the crowded hallways, her warmth like a balm I desperately needed.

I was wary at first. Trust didn’t come easily after centuries of loss and heartbreak. But her persistence, her genuine kindness, slowly chipped away at my defenses. I found myself looking forward to those notes, those brief exchanges that left me feeling seen, even if I didn’t quite want to be.

We spent hours talking after school, sharing secrets beneath the watchful gaze of the moon. She told me about her dreams of becoming a writer, about her love for classic literature Jane Austen, Dickens, the Brontë sisters and her fears of never being good enough. She confided her insecurities, her hopes, her fears of a future she wasn’t sure she deserved.

And I, for the first time in centuries, felt a connection something real and raw that I thought had long ago been extinguished. I told her fragments of the truth about being different, about carrying a darkness within me that I couldn’t quite explain. I warned her I was dangerous, that I had a past filled with pain and shadows. But I couldn’t bring myself to tell her the full truth the monster that lurked beneath my surface.

Our friendship blossomed into something more, something forbidden and intoxicating. It was a dangerous game, and I knew it. I’d had not allowed myself to feel this way in ages I dared not open my heart to the possibility of love. But Sarah was irresistible her touch, her smile, her laugh all of it ignited a fire within me that I thought had long gone out.

One night, beneath a sky dusted with shimmering stars, we kissed. It was tentative, hesitant an act born of curiosity and longing. Her lips were soft and warm, her breath warm against my skin. And in that fleeting moment, I felt like I could be normal like I could finally escape the curse that had haunted me for so long.

But the darkness always wins.

A week later, Sarah was gone.

She’d been walking home from school when it happened a hit-and-run. The police said the driver was drunk, that it was a tragic accident. But I knew better. I felt it in my bones the sharp, agonizing pain that ripped through my chest, a connection severed with brutal finality. I knew, deep down, that I was responsible.

They found her body lying in the street, her fiery hair matted with blood, her eyes wide and vacant. The metallic scent that had haunted me since I arrived grew overwhelming. It was as if her blood had stained the very air I breathed, sealing her fate the curse claiming yet another victim.

Grief, raw and visceral, consumed me. It was a familiar pain, one I’d felt countless times over the centuries each loss a fresh wound on my immortal soul. But this time, it was different. This time, it felt like a part of me had died with her.

Guilt crushed me the crushing weight of it almost unbearable. I knew, with chilling certainty, that I was responsible. My darkness had reached out and claimed her, just as it had claimed so many others before her. I wondered if I was cursed to destroy everything I touched, to be the architect of tragedy in every life I encountered.

I left that town in the dead of night, slipping away into the shadows. The crumbling boarding house, the oppressive school, the memory of Sarah’s bright smile all left behind. I knew I couldn’t stay. I was a plague carrier, a bringer of death and destruction. Anyone who got close to me was doomed, their lives tragically cut short by the darkness that clung to me like a shroud.

And so I wandered.

A solitary figure drifting through the endless night, seeking out the shadows, the forgotten corners of the world where I could hide from prying eyes. I fed, of course I had to. But I was careful, I learned several lifetimes ago... take only what I needed, leave no trace behind. I learned to hunt with precision, to avoid the suffering I knew I would cause if I took more than necessary.

Sometimes, I dream of Sarah. I see her smiling, her eyes sparkling with life her laughter echoing in my mind. And in those dreams, I allow myself to believe that maybe, just maybe, there is a place for me in this world a place where I can finally find peace.

But then I wake up.

The cold reality crashes down upon me like a tidal wave the knowledge that I am destined to wander alone, forever haunted by ghosts of my past, forever burdened by the curse that I can never escape.

The world keeps spinning, indifferent to my pain. I keep moving an endless, purposeless journey through the dark, searching for a place to vanish into. But I know, deep within, that there is no escape. The darkness is always there, waiting, ready to claim its next victim.

Some monsters don’t lurk in the shadows they lurk within. Mine, I fear, will never be silenced.

And so I continue, a tragic figure in an unending night, haunted by memories of love lost, of lives destroyed, of the fragile hope that flickers just beyond my reach. I am a vessel of darkness, a creature cursed to wander until the end of time, forever alone, forever cursed.

Because some monsters aren’t born they are made. And some ghosts refuse to stay buried.
 

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