Dead, but not allowed to die. Alive, but as good as dead.

I’m not flailing now, as my muscles are rigid with the tension of holding myself together. The pain over my heart returns, and from it I imagine tiny fissures spreading out into my body. Through my torso, down my arms and legs, over my face, leaving it crisscrossed with cracks. One good jolt … and I could shatter into strange, razor-sharp shards.

I'm ordered to a week of bed rest and I don't object because I feel so lousy. Not just my heel and my tailbone. My whole body aches with exhaustion. So I let my mother doctor me and feed me breakfast in bed and tuck another quilt around me. Then I just lie there, staring out my window at the winter sky, pondering how on earth this will all turn out.

I'm left staring up at the night sky the only roof left because to many memories are drowning me.

Have I gone mad like Anne and no one has the heart to tell me? I wish someone would tell me, I feel crazy enough though.

the evil thing is inside, not out.

Something small and quiet, like a match being struck, lights up the gloom inside of me.