A thing.
A thins is what was requested of me. Any sort of a thing. The problem is, I've never been good at any sort of thing. I've never been admired by anyone for anything, and it certainly wasn't going to start with THIS thing.
I stare blankly down at the paper before me as it stares patiently back, waiting to be filled. It lies silently before me, not to be silent for long. Soon it will have my voice. It will scream my thoughts, hopes, dreams, anything I care to write for anyone that cares to read.
Not wanting to keep the page waiting any longer, I pick up my pen and begin to etch words into it's delicate skin. I write everything. Thoughts that can't be unthought, songs that can't be unsung, memories that can't help but be remembered.
I write about the time I was five and fell on a rock and knocked my tooth out.
I write about the dead cat I saw on the side of the road when I was eight, only to approach it and find that it was my cat.
I write about the girl that made me hate myself for two whole years.
I write every jealous thought I've had about anyone and every nice thing anyone has said to me.
I write about the boy that tugged at my heart strings until they snapped.
I pour my heart and soul into the pages, I write until my fingers bleed, and slowly, gradually, this thing becomes more than just a thing. It become a novel. The story of my life. Every hope and fear and thought I've ever had is permanently immortalized on these sheets of paper.
It feels invigorating to get all this out in one go. I've always been such a closed book and flipping through these pages I realize why. I learn the secrets I kept from even myself, the desires I never knew I had.
Every page I turn gives more and more details about the me I didn't know was in me. Fear rises inside me as a monster emerges from the pages. It's made of my fears and clothed in all the bad memories and negative thoughts I've had. It rips all the positive things from the pages and consumes them, burning them for energy.
This monster had been living inside me for as long as I can remember. I've tried to keep it subdued, not telling anyone about it. I've fought this monster for years, receiving scars from our life long war. Some are obvious like the ones on my wrists, others are less visible, like the ones on my mind and heart.
I stand and face this being of lost hopes and forgotten dreams. I'm prepared for our final battle. I arm myself with love and kind words, however, as the monster draws nearer, my weapons seem weaker and insignificant. Still, I fight valiantly. The battle pursues until it's clear who the victor is. I fall to the ground, blood trickling from my wrists, drawn by the knife in my own hand. That's the scary thing about the monster. It can control me, make me think and do things, no matter how well armed I may be.
I let go of the knife as realization of what I did floods over me. I imagine the looks of my family when they find me like this. I curse the wretched monster, but mostly I curse myself for falling at its hand.
With my final breathy I watch the monster that once consumed my mind stalk away in search of a new lost soul to inhabit.