Denying to herself what she thought happened...
She finds the notebook sitting on her nightstand, the first thing she sees when she opens her eyes in the dimness of her basement room, just like it belongs there. She thinks it must be a joke, Billy snuck in the night before and put it there, or maybe even Hayley, but then she remembers that she'd never told anyone about it. Even if she had, they wouldn't have known what it looked like, or been able to fill the pages inside with her thoughs.
But there it is, a blue spiral-bound journal, the cover swirled with color and litered with glitter and stickers, a purple gel pen stuck inside the wire binding. She stares at it for a long time before she can bring herself to actually touch it, her heart in her throat and her stomach fluttering like a nervous, caged animal, and her hands are shaking visibly when she finally reaches out to lift it from the nightstand. The weight of it is familiar, the coarseness of the binding with the edges worn soft from use. She lets the pages fall open, the pads of her fingers brushing over the faint indentions of the scrawled writing inside. Scribbles of ink, swirls of daydreams and her deepest, darkest feelings poured out onto the pages. She'd started keeping a journal when her father left them. When her mother started AA and when Brady started coming over to stay the night. Most of the writing was illegible,even to Tracy, but standing there alone in her room, her roommate long since left to start her day, she thought she could feel every bit of emotion, every drop of pain and hope and wanting that went into those words. It's amazing how much a thirteen year old little girl can want, even when she's still playing with Barbies and has rainbows on her tube-socks.
The writing abruptly stops, the pages pristine and white. Untouched. Evie Zamora came along and the journal was shoved under Tracy's bed, left behind and forgotten. Bigger and better things took it's place. For reasons she didn't understand, the journal held almost as much embarrassment as her old beanie baby collection or her day of the week underwear, but she hadn't had the heart to throw it away.
And now, here it is, clutched so tightly in her hands her fingers are already starting to cramp. She doesn't know where to go, because this room in this basement holds no feelings of safety for her. She thinks about going to find Billy, but it's just a stupid journal. She needs to stop acting like such a fucking baby about it.
Finally, it's the beach where Tracy ends up, and it's only when she's sitting in the sand near the water's edge that she realizes she's still in her pajamas. She should go back inside, find some clothes or shower or maybe even force something down to her stomach, but she doesn't think her legs will carry her that far. Her thumb presses against the inside of her wrist, and she lets out a tiny, broken sigh at the dull stab of pain, but it's not enough. Not nearly enough, and staring out toward the ocean she wonders what it would feel like to let the waves swallow her up and never let her go.
Maybe that really is the only way for her to go home.
[OOC: Open to all. Warning for large amounts of gushing, teenage girl-angst. She's not a happy camper, and while she might not open up to just anyone, and you might be in store for a tantrum, she's in need of some friendly faces. Slowtime/Late tags of course are welcome.]
But there it is, a blue spiral-bound journal, the cover swirled with color and litered with glitter and stickers, a purple gel pen stuck inside the wire binding. She stares at it for a long time before she can bring herself to actually touch it, her heart in her throat and her stomach fluttering like a nervous, caged animal, and her hands are shaking visibly when she finally reaches out to lift it from the nightstand. The weight of it is familiar, the coarseness of the binding with the edges worn soft from use. She lets the pages fall open, the pads of her fingers brushing over the faint indentions of the scrawled writing inside. Scribbles of ink, swirls of daydreams and her deepest, darkest feelings poured out onto the pages. She'd started keeping a journal when her father left them. When her mother started AA and when Brady started coming over to stay the night. Most of the writing was illegible,even to Tracy, but standing there alone in her room, her roommate long since left to start her day, she thought she could feel every bit of emotion, every drop of pain and hope and wanting that went into those words. It's amazing how much a thirteen year old little girl can want, even when she's still playing with Barbies and has rainbows on her tube-socks.
The writing abruptly stops, the pages pristine and white. Untouched. Evie Zamora came along and the journal was shoved under Tracy's bed, left behind and forgotten. Bigger and better things took it's place. For reasons she didn't understand, the journal held almost as much embarrassment as her old beanie baby collection or her day of the week underwear, but she hadn't had the heart to throw it away.
And now, here it is, clutched so tightly in her hands her fingers are already starting to cramp. She doesn't know where to go, because this room in this basement holds no feelings of safety for her. She thinks about going to find Billy, but it's just a stupid journal. She needs to stop acting like such a fucking baby about it.
Finally, it's the beach where Tracy ends up, and it's only when she's sitting in the sand near the water's edge that she realizes she's still in her pajamas. She should go back inside, find some clothes or shower or maybe even force something down to her stomach, but she doesn't think her legs will carry her that far. Her thumb presses against the inside of her wrist, and she lets out a tiny, broken sigh at the dull stab of pain, but it's not enough. Not nearly enough, and staring out toward the ocean she wonders what it would feel like to let the waves swallow her up and never let her go.
Maybe that really is the only way for her to go home.
[OOC: Open to all. Warning for large amounts of gushing, teenage girl-angst. She's not a happy camper, and while she might not open up to just anyone, and you might be in store for a tantrum, she's in need of some friendly faces. Slowtime/Late tags of course are welcome.]