Excitement of the Unknown - ?To life: A world of Novels?

♡{This is a story with double-meaning words}♡

'Irene.'

I think to myself as I stare at the blank ceiling, cold fabric pressing against my back. Lying motionless on the thin mattress that is my bed.

The night is quiet except for the faint pattering of rain against the window. Almost soothing. Almost.

'Irene.'

I think again.

'What did you do?'

My own voice is accusing. Cruel.

I stare at nothing but the darkness that has enveloped my room in its eternal suffering. Suffering I have grown accustomed to.

Suffering I look forward to.

My heart aches from the emptiness gnawing at me. But what can one do?

'Irene.'

There's that voice again.

'You're a failure.'

I shut my eyes, covering my ears. "Stop it." I murmured quietly.

'A novelist? Tch.'

I curled in the thin blanket, shivering from cold or pain, I did not know.

'Couldn't you be something better? A doctor? An engineer?'

'Anything really. But a Novelist.'

"I said stop-!" But it continued anyway, my own voice.

'You're better of dead.'

My breath hitched-I opened my eyes, "No..."

'Oh but yes.'

'You're a burden, nothing more.'

'If you were a boy, perhaps you'd be loved more.'

"You're wrong-"

'But am I though?'

I sat up, numb. Heart hammering against my ribcage.

'You need to end it, don't you?'

"I-"

'You do.'

'You've been craving for peace. Dying for it.'

My gaze slid to the blade I had unscrewed but abandoned.

'Take it.'

"I can't.. " I shook my head lightly, staring at the gleaming curve of the blade.

'Why not? Do you like to be dehumanized? Compared?'

"Not really, no-"

'Then take it' The voice insisted.

Hesitantly, I stood and walked towards the desk.

I took the blade, held out my wrist.

Pale skin, moonlight glimmering on it, making it even more pale than before.

The blade was mere inches away.

'Why hesitate? One cut, is all it takes.'

"It does..." I replied numbly.

But is it what I really wanted?

My hand strembled ever so slightly. I took a deep breath and set the blade aside.

'What are you doing-!?'

"Shut up."

The voice carried on, louder, more tempting with each step I took away from the blade.

I yanked the drawer open, taking my pen and journal.

"I still have a choice."

I sat down with a huff, staring at the black leather-bound journal in my lap.

With shaking hands, I opened it to the first page.

My heart was beating fast, not with pain or loneliness.

Something closer to.... hope.

I drew a character.

Black hair, violet eyes, pale skin, slim but weak body-so much like me-or perhaps it was me.

I wrote about her.

Her life, her insecurities, her personality.

My heart raced.

Yes, this could be it.

I'd let my emotions into my characters and build a world of fantasy.

A world full of roses so beautiful, and sceneries that take your breath away.

With nights so dark, and stars so bright, it makes you want to stay.

With people of love and heart so vast, they'll make you live.

If only so what I want can be created, even if it is on paper.

I can make it reach others, others like me.

Who want to be seen, to be appreciated.

To be wanted.

A strange excitement took over me as I drew more characters, planned more plots, wrote more backstories.

I can become a novelist, I will become one.

My heart fluttered with unfiltered joy.

Yes.

A Novelist.

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