Still Life: Seth’s Journal, XXII

Part of an assignment to write a journal entry of any kind.

Time has no meaning here. All I know is that we’re here, still. Another night in the woods – great.

I’m so tired I can barely write this – my eyes are closing, and my hand’s dropping off the page.

Arm’s still bleeding, and I can smell the coppery, metallic scent of it. Makes me feel a little sick. Sofia’s patched it up pretty well, however; I’ll live.

She asked me if I was scared. maybe I should have lied to her, but, God…

I am. I am, and I wish Dad were here. he’d know what to do, what to say.

Violet doesn’t seem to mind this place; says it’s open. Don’t think I’ll ever understand her. She says she can breathe here, like that’s new. (I caught her talking to Sofia once, and she said that the land sings to her. I just don’t get that.)

I don’t belong here. My eyes keep lying to me, and I can’t even believe my own ears.

I need to go home, if just to keep my sanity.


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