2. Scribbles

“One word after another.  Don’t stop the word.”  she chanted this quietly, rapidly in her head.  Over and over.  “One word after another.  Don’t stop the word.  Don’t stop the word.”

 It was well past four in the morning, and Sarah really needn’t tell the words to keep coming, because in reality she couldn’t stop.  Hadn’t stopped for hours.  Wouldn’t stop until her alarm went off, because then it was time to change from yesterday’s grimy clothing into today’s, and go to school.

“One word after another.  Do not stop the word.”

She knew it was right.  Writing.  It felt right.  It calmed the itch that crawled through her body constantly.  That made her want to scream.  Just thinking the word “scream” made her want to do it.  Her pen never leaving the paper, never slowing for an instant in scribbled, unreadable faux-cursive, she looked around the near-dark room.

If she looked, it was just a room.  If she didn’t . . .

Using only her left hand, she pulled a cigarette from the crumpled pack she had found in her father’s workshop.  She lit it.  Still writing.  She inhaled the way children do, shallowly.  Just enough.  And exhaled.
She was thirteen.  She hadn’t slept in three days.
“One word after another.  Do not stop the word.”

Note from Renee:  Don’t get all judgy.  I’m giving 10 minutes to write each entry.

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