Grief
I'm writing a book and thinking on whether I should include this or change directions. can someone help please
I stayed up all night, hidden behind the trees. Laura wasn’t home and her mum said that she went to see Lily and it was getting dark. So, I went. She stayed the night, so I did too, watching her. How can she be so stupid? Who stays the whole night in the graveguard? And now she has Nat staying here, telling her about her problems, like she needs more on her plate.
No sleep. And a friendly match in an hour. I sigh, moving my car into park.
I walk through my expansive hallway, passing the empty vase in the centre. With one hand holding a blunt and the other holding a beer, I walk to and through the glass double doors out into our garden.
I sit on the coach, sighing deeply. I open the beer, and put the blunt in between my fingers. I know this ain't me. I don’t smoke or drink much but something has to deal with this stress. It wraps around me, almost like thick smoke. It’s in my throat. Always. And my chest too. I call it stress.
I take a sip. Laura appears.
“Luke, what are you doing?” she says, with her eyebrows folding into her face. She has her glasses on. I love the way they frame her face. Black thick frames. She snatches the beer from my grasp, along...
I stayed up all night, hidden behind the trees. Laura wasn’t home and her mum said that she went to see Lily and it was getting dark. So, I went. She stayed the night, so I did too, watching her. How can she be so stupid? Who stays the whole night in the graveguard? And now she has Nat staying here, telling her about her problems, like she needs more on her plate.
No sleep. And a friendly match in an hour. I sigh, moving my car into park.
I walk through my expansive hallway, passing the empty vase in the centre. With one hand holding a blunt and the other holding a beer, I walk to and through the glass double doors out into our garden.
I sit on the coach, sighing deeply. I open the beer, and put the blunt in between my fingers. I know this ain't me. I don’t smoke or drink much but something has to deal with this stress. It wraps around me, almost like thick smoke. It’s in my throat. Always. And my chest too. I call it stress.
I take a sip. Laura appears.
“Luke, what are you doing?” she says, with her eyebrows folding into her face. She has her glasses on. I love the way they frame her face. Black thick frames. She snatches the beer from my grasp, along...