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Rated: E · Chapter · Emotional · #2104347
Ch 4 of a novel I'm currently in the editing process of
April
4
I finally decide to pick up the place a bit, it’s starting to smell like moldy balls. As I'm putting clothes in the washing machine I notice some of L' clothes are still in hamper. I thought Mags' already got rid of anything that was L’s. One afternoon she just came over with trash bags and got all her stuff, I guess she donated it or something, I didn’t ask. She thought getting rid of all her stuff would help with the reminders, what a joke. I still see L’s imprint on the bed, still smell her scent. Everywhere, Every day.

Maggie must have forgotten to check the laundry basket because Ls' favorite white flowery dress, pale pink panties, and my favorite red bra of hers. I bring her bra up to my nose and inhale. It causes a sharp pang in my heart so painful I can almost hear the remainder of my heart shattering. She had come home one night showing me her new purchase with a seductive smile. We fucked our brains out and lay panting in our sweat for several minutes that night.

I notice an earth green notebook in the bottom of the hamper. It looks faintly familiar, if L was trying to hide it, it was a genius place to hide it because I never did the laundry. The first page is dated December 22, 2012 in her loopy handwriting; A few months before we met. Her journal.

I quickly, close it and put it down, and the emotions crash into me, confusion because she never mentioned she kept a journal, joy that I have something that might bring me closer to her, and sadness because nothing can compare to having her here the sadness out weighing everything. A journal is a pale comparison to her smile, taste, warmth, and her gloom.

My therapist suggested keep a journal, he seems to think it'll help.

I only make it to the first sentence. My world is spinning.
Therapist? She never told me she ever saw a therapist. These secrets overwhelming me. I try laying back down but it only makes things worse, I can't stop thinking about all the things she was keeping things from me and I'm afraid to find out any more secrets. I decide to go for a run, which I haven't done since she died but anything is better than sitting here with my thoughts. The sound of my footsteps in time with my racing heat thankfully helps me relax.

My alarm is set for 6 am, I check the clock and read 2 am, fuck. The fact that there’s a journal that might give me answers won’t let me rest.

Fuck it. I pick up the journal and continue reading.

My therapist suggested I keep a journal, he seems to think it'll help. So here goes nothing. Today I came home to my uncle having lunch with my mom. He smiled a wide toothy smile and asked how it was going. It felt like someone had punched me in my stomach and as soon as I was able to suck in a breath they did it again. I struggled to make eye contact and scurried away to my room as fast I could locking the door behind me. How can my mom let him come to visit, how he is allowed to be anywhere near me? I hate this, I hate this this life and I wish I was dead. I grabbed a razor and make pretty red lines going across my wrist shallow enough to cause temporary relief but not deep enough for a permanent solution.

What the fuck. L was never very forthcoming about her past, we didn't talk about it much, I knew she had a sister, never knew her father, and she used to cut herself, that one she didn’t want to talk about but I saw the scars. She always said she hated wallowing in the past so I never pushed her to talk about it. I now wish I had.

I can’t continue to read; I go shower and let the drain be the only witness to salty water drops from my eyes.
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