042. STORY-TELLING
No. I can't remember-- but that is nothing new, is it? The faces or the names of my parents, my own name, my childhood, my past. What I liked, who I liked, who liked me. How I had fun, what books I read, what foods I prefered. Details. They're just details, aren't they? Yet life is about details. And I can't remember my age.
I remember the blood of my parents joining my own on the floor. And I remember my mother's head on my chest. She was heavy. ...a little bit warm. The only mother warmth I remember
The pain at the first cut, the numbness by the second. I did not want to die. I would not--and then he came.
And let me think he'd been the killer for too long a time. ...father...
...what am I doing?!
[ooc; A-affected. Not really happy, her story. You know?]
I remember the blood of my parents joining my own on the floor. And I remember my mother's head on my chest. She was heavy. ...a little bit warm. The only mother warmth I remember
The pain at the first cut, the numbness by the second. I did not want to die. I would not--and then he came.
And let me think he'd been the killer for too long a time. ...father...
...what am I doing?!
[ooc; A-affected. Not really happy, her story. You know?]