Warning: This work has been rated 16+ for language.
You wait until the house grows quiet. The dryer stops thrumming in the room above you and your little brother finally goes to bed. You hear him open the bathroom door; his light footsteps pad to his bedroom, the door shuts, and you know he's falling asleep.
You plug your laptop into the wall and pull your headphones down over your ears; you take off your glasses and set them on the table next to you even though you won't be able to see quite as well as if you had them on. You don't need them.
When you're writing, you know your way around the keys well enough to barely need to look at the screen. You're drifting around in the spaces inside your head, the ones covered in splotches of wet paint and half drawn ideas tacked into murky corkboards. Combining paint with some of the ideas, adding extra paragraphs to sheets of dusty parchment. Your hungry fingers tap the ideas out into the computer, and it feels like you're bleeding everything that's important to you into the keyboard.
You're a writer. This is what you do. You wake up some of your old ideas and polish them until they're brand new and maybe a little better than before; you put others to sleep, tucking them away in the dark corners of your mind because you just can't seem to use them right now. Maybe later. Maybe in the next story. Or the one after that.
At first, you write about how you feel inside. You write about him. You wonder why he doesn't answer you when you text him. Because he used to. Back before you chopped your hair off, when it was long enough to brush your shoulders and soft enough to never be able to keep his hands off of it. Back when you knew a little less about the way the world works and a little more about how to make him smile.
You just want him to say goodnight to you because it means he thought about you for a moment. But he doesn't, and it hurts you. So, you do the only thing you know how to do. You take your pain, pull it out of your chest with your fingertips, and pour it into your computer. Your fingers race across the keys.
Maybe when the words are scattered across the screen in front of you, they'll make a little more sense. Maybe a part of you still needs to try to find out why you're hurting even though you know you won't be able to. You should know enough to know it will hurt no matter what you do. You're an idiot for knowing it and not doing anything about it.
Suddenly, you are angry. You're not sure if you're angry at him or at yourself, but you do know that there's anger burning inside of you. You highlight everything you've written and delete it all, and you start over. The blank word document is encouraging.
Here, darling, try a fresh start. We won't tell anyone about the other words.
Why, thank you, document. You're a good friend.
You tell yourself to try something original. No one wants to hear about him anymore, you stupid girl. They want a fresh story, something with action in it and a heroine who learns something from each story she participates in. They want a well-organized, streamlined little story that does its job dutifully and doesn't disappoint anyone.
You come up with one that might work. The heroine is an alchemist; she's searching feverishly for the secret to turning common metals into gold. She's heard of an ancient alchemist living in a mountainous region many miles away, so she sets off to find him. Along the way, she meets a man. Well, he's almost a man. He's still kind of a boy. His smile is uncertain, like he wants to be happy but doesn't know if it's quite okay to do so. His arms are strong and lean and when they're around the heroine, she can feel the strength sleeping inside of them, and it makes her feel safe.
Shit, you say. He's found his way into your story again. And that's not good. Stop thinking about him, damn it. This is supposed to be a way to get away from him.
You highlight the text, erase it all, and start again.
This time, you write about trees. Tall trunks spindling up above you, sturdy and strong and covered in rough bark like armor. You write about the leaves falling down, flickering through the air like ideas flickered through the boy's eyes when he was feeling mischievous. They collect in piles on the ground, different shades of oranges and yellows and ambers melding together, and when autumn bonfires happen, armfuls of them perish in the hungry flames, and the smoke is pungent enough to make your throat burn when you inhale, and you remember when you were at the bonfire and his arms wrapped around you and he smelled like smoke too. There are no characters and there is no plot and nothing important happens and suddenly you realize what you're doing.
Damn it.
Finally, you know your story's gone to shit. So you begin to type furiously. And everything falls out of you in a jumbled mess, all of your words blending together the way they do in real life when you're too excited to organize them. And he is in all of the paragraphs; you can almost hear the way his voice rasps when you read them. You think about the girl that he likes better than you even though he doesn't say so; you're not completely devoid of common sense and you know that he likes her the way he used to like you and now there's no room for you anymore. You're not mad at him because you just want him to be happy; you're mad at yourself because he's happy and you're having a hard time realizing that he's okay with letting you drift out of his life. You're a kite and he's holding your string. You're petrified that he might get bored with you and decide to loop your string around a tree branch and walk away.
You want to forget him. You want to forget him more than anything, only you know you can't. You know you can't because when anyone tries to get close to you, you can't stop yourself from remembering the electricity you felt when you touched. You think of all of the times you should've kissed him, but you were in the process of learning about life and you were so fucking scared. You didn't know how much longer your family would stay together and you were learning how it feels to love and hate someone at the same time; you cried so much that you can't cry now even when you want to because, if anything, you've learned that tears don't do shit. They don't make anything different; they just give you a headache.
You're not a writer. You're just a scared kid who gets high off of words the way some people get high off of weed. Glancing over the jumbled mess in your word document, you realize that you're repulsed by yourself. So you press the little red x in the corner of the screen, and when a text box pops up asking you if you want to save the document, you slowly drag your cursor over it.
Do I want to save this?
No. Delete it. Why would you want to save a piece of trash like this?
You end up deleting it. But it takes a few seconds for you to do so.
You shut your computer down and unplug it from the wall. You make sure your alarm's set and place your headphones neatly on the desk next to your bed. You pull your blankets up around you and inhale because you washed them today and you like it when they smell of lavender. You know you're going to have a hard time waking up in the morning because you stayed up late writing, but it's worth it to you.
You're a writer. This is what you do.
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139,268 Literary Works • 672,523 Reviews
Wow. That's all I can say. This piece flowed so beautifully and it hit all the right places of my heart. I feel like you're actually reading me. This is all so true with me. I loved the way you described the setting in the beginning and that you didn't bring it back until the end. I'm currently on the computer. It's 1:43AM and the rest of my family is asleep.
I instantly connected when I read this. Towards the end, when you started to write "Finally, you know your story's gone to shit. So you begin to type furiously." I felt the emotions described in those next paragraphs and I even teared up a bit because I know how that feels. 
You did an amazing job.
Sarah
I loved how I felt like you were either whispering or speaking very softly since it's late at night and your little brother is sleeping. It made me feel like I was the only one feeling spoken to and I really liked that.
Wonderful piece.
Ok before i start i just wanna say this story was beautiful the writing flowed off the page and really hit me deep. It almost made me cry after a couple of paragraphs but it was beautifully written and beautifully worded. I could almost fall in love with this piece of writing.
This story was very moving. It was original, it flowed, it had a theme and a purpose. The general feeling of it was touching and heartfelt. It was written to be related to. You can look at this story and say "Oh yes i totally see myself as that character or that person." This story was made to tell a part in everyone's life that we all go through.
The characters were easy to relate to and you could really understand what the narrator is going through. It was understandable in a way that we can all relate to. The plot is easy to identify and the reason for writing this is clear. I see real direction and perspective in this piece.
The dialogue is mostly internal, what the narrator is thinking to themselves but it is great nonetheless. I really understood what the author was trying to get across in the dialogue. I could tell what the mood was by the way the words were said and which words were used.
I loved how there were no mistakes in this story. No spelling errors or sentence errors, the grammar was used correctly and there was nothing to distract from the reading. Many times when an author doesn't correct the story and there are tons of errors that is all the reader can focus on. I had no problem concentrating on what was written.
I completely loved this story. I think this story was the best i have read so far. I wish you luck with your writing and hope that you continue writing wonderful stories. I just want you to know i loved, loved, loved this. XD
Thank you very much!
Hey. EatSleepRead here.
This is the awesomest piece of writing I've ever seen. Really. This is so beautiful I stopped everything that I was doing and read this over and over. Wonderful!
If you want to be an author, you are on the right path, my friend.
Nice grammar. No mistakes.
I love how you used second person point of view for this. It's never really used often, and I love it when the author involves the reader in the story. I could never imagine myself as a character in a book, but you certainly made it seem like I was. Great job!
Keep writing, you will be successful.
~Renee
Thank you so much, Renee!
This was an absolutely beautiful piece of writing. Honestly, I just... I'm feeling a bit incoherent right now, and there may or may not be the suggestion of tears in my eyes. Okay, that last bit was a lie -they aren't the suggestion of tears, and they're not in my eyes, they're flowing down my cheeks because that story was amazing beyond articulation. But, I'll stop my ramblings now, and try to become a little more pointed. I feel somehow unworthy to critique this, but I'll give it my best shot. Feel free to disregard any and everything I say; your mastery of language far surpasses mine, and you so very clearly know exactly when you're doing.
"You're drifting around in the spaces inside your head, the ones covered in splotches of wet paint and half drawn ideas tacked into murky corkboards." I adored this sentence, honestly. There's just one tiny thing that seemed a bit wrong, and that was the "tacked INTO murky corkboards". I don't know, but I feel like corkboards are objects corporeal enough to warrant things being tacked ONTO them instead?
"Maybe a part of you still needs to try to find out why you're hurting even though you know you won't be able to." I did glean what this meant, eventually, but it warranted a rereading. It seems a little bit vague; perhaps make it slightly clearer? (It's likely simply me, though. I tend to be a little obtuse upon occasion.)
"You're not sure if you're angry at him or at yourself, but you do know that there's anger burning inside of you." The second anger seems a little repetitive -maybe use another synonym?
"The blank word document is encouraging." I believe 'word' should be capitalized, as Word is the name of the program, and thus takes the status of proper noun.
"They want a fresh story, something with action in it and a heroine who learns something from each story she participates in." The second 'story' seems a little strange. At first, you seem to be referring to a singular story, but then you have the heroine participating in multiple stories, and it seems like you have a little paradox going on there; a story within a story. Perhaps you meant something more along the lines of each event within the story? That would make a little more sense, I think. And, as it stands, tossing the second 'story' in there just made it a little choppy. Repetitive.
"His smile is uncertain, like he wants to be happy but doesn't know if it's quite okay to do so." Just wanted to say, I loved this line so, so much. This may or may not have been when I started crying.
"Tall trunks spindling up above you, sturdy and strong and covered in rough bark like armor." Whilst it sounds pretty, I don't think 'spindling' is quite the right word. A spindle is the pin holding the bobbin on a sewing machine, or a pointy metal rod used to impale paper for filing. (I'm pretty sure it has something to do with cell division, too, but I'm not entirely sure, and it doesn't matter anyways).
"and when autumn bonfires happen" Happen just seemed sort of weak. It works, but I think a writer as talented as you could find something stronger.
"remembering the electricity you felt when you touched." The second 'you' seems slightly obscure, almost as if it could be referring to yourself, except that doesn't make sense, and your mind has to shift gears slightly to understand what it's referring to and that detracts from the poignancy. Maybe just try to clarify it a bit?
All in all, this story was absolutely stunning, and I'm probably going to return and read it over and over until the words are etched into my brain tissue, because it was just that good.
Thank you so much for the review! I'm so happy that you liked it. I appreciate your input.
hey....
Your writing is very powerful and catches the reader because you are writing about real experiences. You will go far.
At some point it reminded me of The Book Thief, similar style.
When you are cursing, you sound like you don't mean it, you hold yourself back. This feeling of hatred, self-pity, bitterness, sadness that has been boiling up inside of you gradually grows through your writing, but you spit it out gently with one or two curse words.
otherwise perfect!
Only yesterday was i, like you sitting at my computer, squeezing out a poem. I ended up crying like a small child on the floor.
Thank you!
Oh my god. I usually review these things and suggest things you can change, but this was just so perfect. Don't change a thing!
Your description, the way you draw the reader in and swirl them around your character's head using the second person is masterful. There wasn't a single problem of syntax or spelling, at least that I could see.
There were also elements of this story the I found I could relate to very naturally, and you seem to have plucked a few moments from my life and placed them delicately into a story that touches the reader- or even just me- deeply.
I'm getting a little flustered and carried away, and perhaps I should delete my last bit of text...
But seriously, this was a great story and I'd love to see more. Kudos to you
Thank you so much! I'm happy that you liked it. I love your avvie, by the way.
"You're drifting around in the spaces inside your head, the ones covered in splotches of wet paint and half drawn ideas tacked into murky corkboards."
I have a slight obsession with that line, I think I may even put it on a sticky-note and put it on my door; would you mind?
This is an amazing story, like, I can't even begin to express my love for it.
I only have one thing to say, and this is certainly just my opinion. It might appear more dramatic, if, at the end when you say, "You're a writer. This is what you do.", you try, "You ARE a writer. This is what you do.".
I think it would just make that last bit a little more pronounced and finial.
This was an amazing piece, thank you for such a beautiful read!
~ManyMuch
Thank you for reviewing!
When I first look at a piece of writing, I look at it's length. Sometimes I don't read the whole long piece because I am just a lazy person. But your story was different.
I couldn't stop reading it. You know why? Because it was the story of my life. Of every writers life. This is me every night I'm upset. Or when I'm just so happy. This is me. You're amazing. Seriously. I couldn't imagine writing something like this.
From what I see, you have no misspellings nor grammar mistakes. Perfect.
I'm really happy you wrote this. I'm going to be reading it over and over again. Keep Writing! PM me anytime for anything!
Again, amazing.
Nike
Thanks, Nike! I'm glad that you liked it.