Mica's TEXT BOX

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Mica's TEXT BOX

Post  Mica on Thu Jan 20, 2011 1:45 pm

Just etcs. XD

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It was a voice, a faint distant voice that wanted to speak to her but in the depths of her consciousness and persistent awareness made it impossible to be heard. She would close her eyes and almost hear the soft masculine whisper that tried to make out words. It never bothered her as to why, but something in her heart told her that if she allowed it to speak, something would happen, something irreversible. But humans are subject to a constant state of vulnerability, a fact that infuriated her very being. She was not weak; at least this is what she willed herself not to be. Anything but that, often she would tell herself.

The moments where she would often find herself in an internal struggle to retain her sanity had often led people to believe the opposite of what she was: sane. There were sleepless nights in the library in particularly disturbing books about demons, haunting, ghosts and some sort of anything that might have made sense. Sometimes they would stay to medical books about delusions and popular sickness that came with it. But apart from the voices that she could somehow suppress, there was nothing else wrong with her.

She would have looked healthy too, had it not been for the sleepless nights and generally lack of rest. It took a while to resign to the fact that she may never know unless she allowed it to speak to her, which would simply not do. Her life had turned for the worst since they started happening, her family was disappointed in her and treated her like a black sheep due to her drinking habits which only existed because it helped her sleep, even if it made her smell disgusting and the mornings would generally be terrible.

The taste of liquor was bitter, almost as bitter as she felt as she drank it. But her mind would go numb and it would let her sleep without much disturbances. The ‘habit’ had not fared her well though, even if her studies did not falter too badly. This kept her parents silent enough, at least until they were rid of her.

Waking up while her head wanted to kill itself was not pleasant, to the ringing of her alarm clock and how it made the hurt so much worse. Her hand slammed the top to make the noise stop and promptly sat up. Being groggy was simply a routine at the moment. Her black hair reeked of alcohol; her pale skin seemed paler as the day went by. Her life was centered around keeping the voices away, while everyone else told her there was nothing wrong with her.

Lisette, Lisette… My dear Lisette.

And not a moment too soon they would begin; at this point she would mentally prepare herself for the next 15 hours of her day. Routine, as it was.

She dragged her body to rise, walk to the bathroom and clean herself. It took five minutes to turn on the coffee maker, toast two pieces of bread to nibble on as she piled last night dishes in the dishwasher. The next few minutes was finishing her meager breakfast and readied the bathroom for a shower.

Lisette made a note not to stand and do nothing, it did not help distract. The idea was to keep busy, no matter what she had to do. With the toast consumed, the next thing to do was to take a shower.

Please, you must listen…

Perhaps in an alternate dimension, the attractive voice would have been somehow romantic and kind of a dream come true. But girlish fantasies were things she did not enjoy having. It was unrealistic. Her shower was quick, no time to stay in the water longer than she needed.

But sometimes there were moments of silence, solitude and peace. Often she would find herself standing in front of the bathroom mirror, naked and exposed. It didn’t take her long to realize just how badly she took care of herself, simply to cater to them. But what else could she do?

Getting dressed was also a quick process, white tank top, gray sweater and jeans. Her long straight black hair would be tied in a loose bun, strands falling to the front of her face. Her eyes were an icy shade of blue, often looking like she was blind. Her bag was big, bulky and always full of books, always hanging on one shoulder.



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Mica
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