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feel sorry for it all. She had a bad raising, and parents who were never around to teach her how to do it for herself right, but it wasn't an excuseit never would be. She pulled me once, from everything I'd ever known. I counted clouds through my welling eyes, and I saw faces in their shapes that I'd never see again. Back then it was only a friendly tap on my head to put my sunglasses over my eyes to cover the red patches. When the people were around, and they could see, it was only that friendly tap.

The last time I spoke to her was on my birthday. I've realized in the short time since, that most memories in the world don't disappear with time, but only hide in the back closet of the brain, chancing to come out every once in a while to remind me of what I've gained since. I know I'll never have the opportunity to erase it all, or to completely cure the world of hate and problems. My brain has been shattered over and over again in my head, in a sensation that I can't reiterate in words of any language. No matter how long I attempt a normal life, from the day I saw those faces in the clouds, I've taken a rocky path that will impact everything in the future.

What most people don't notice, are those of us that hide it so well; underneath the skin, a twinge with every touch to our shoulders, yet our faces don't show the cringing of our abdomens when someone brushes past, hand on elbow to say "excuse me". My life could have only become more brilliant from the day I moved on, and nothing more.

It was always amazing how the ones around me never really knew, and gathered from my mannerisms what was really lurking beneath the blood in my skin, or even why I kept it from them. My weakness was nothing I was proud of, but in time, it's evolved from a weakness to a simple memory that visits me at night.

Memory is all I want, and I'd rather it stayed hidden in only my mind, without influencing others. I cherish what I have now; my fianc sleeping on the outside edge of the bed, covered in a sheen from the touch of heat in the night air. His mind, though far from innocent, hasn't had the chance to become scathed by the full reality of life, and I hope to keep him from that.

Last night I finally fell to sleep, drooping against that cool, whitewashed wall. Around a quarter after four I looked my last time to the clock, and surrendered to my respite.

Learn more about this author, Chey.
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