The missing words

Note: I missed the deadline for the diary challenge - but it was too powerful not to share....)

It made no sense to dream of myself as someone important or self assured. I used to be throttling towards something so big for myself that dreaming was more of a reality, it didn't seem like a dream at all. I certainly wasn't self assured but when it came to the future, I just knew it was big and the possibilities endless, a chef, an actress, anything I wanted to be.

I lay still now, for longer than a would have then, because it made no sense to dream of myself as anything. It became impossible to see further than past the pain that would be inflicted that day. I opened and closed my eyes so slowly that I am surprised I saw it. My skin was etched into the ground where I landed, my body bruised and aching. I pulled myself along the ground, despite that gravel that scratched my skin. I pulled the black object closer to me, gently feeling the smooth leather covering and the fragile pages beneath it.

The thought crossed my mind that finding a notebook right now seemed almost cruel. I needed arms wrapped around me, an army of crusaders fighting for me, a doctor, anything but a small empty notebook. It wasn't, though, an empty notebook. I need to move now, as I always did, past the pain and fear and shame, and back into the arms of him, because I want anything anymore.

I found a quiet space; it was easy to find peace once the monster had released his anguish. He no longer needed to starve me of all of the light that fed him. In the momentary light I found the words she wrote, from a quiet place of her own.

"It never mattered to me to be someone. It mattered to me to be loved by someone. He left me today, here forever, broken and wedged in time. My words now are all I have, if only I could reach someone. Will I be alone for the rest of time? If I could find a way to break the glass, to make my voice louder.

How could this be, these kinds of stories are written for movies? These stories don't happen to a simple girl that wanted nothing more than love. I guess I could give up, but I need my words to not be forgotten. We were trapped here, my love and I. Until he left me.

A monster decided we were folly for his games, old toys to be tossed into a basement and fed only to keep us alive. I'll never understand why but if my message could be found, maybe the monster can be stopped.

help me...."

The words struck me so deeply that I stepped back, flooded with tears and anger. Anger never really struck me, it had been years that my monster had subdued such strong reactions to things. I could only feel nothing, in order to survive. I ran towards the door, and kept running, until I reached the library. Who was she, could I save her?

I googled every possible local mystery involving a missing couple, and after one dead end after the other I started to lose hope. This was truly impossible to solve, so I poured the pages again. Days and days of painful notes, of begging for help and to be heard. Days and days went by, no closer was I to solving this puzzle I almost succumbed to my own retched helplessness, until I found the empty pages. I started to tell her my story. It was foolish to think she could here me, but it was all I had left. Her loss, her fear, had awakened a spark in me. I couldn't save myself, but could I save her?

I started to write about the day we met, my man in shining army, his dazzling eyes and smile. The months we spent dreaming of our future, the love that oozed out of me like every new couple experienced. I wrote of the babies that I brought into this world, and the nightmare that slowly intertwined the love I had for them.

I wrote of the monster that didn't steal me quickly, but crept in the shadows until I least expected it. He would fill me with light, growing it like he was incubating his next meal, only to rip it so violently from me that each time tore a larger hole from my self.

I wrote it all, and when I reached the final page I noticed something I had never seen before. Her name was written in the corner of the final page, etched so small as if she was terrified that her name would unveil a secret. I leapt up towards the door, ripping the dress I was wearing and ran for the library again.

I searched her name, and parts of her story for hours before I found her. Her story led me there, not her name. For what I found were the exact words from the journal, a journal written in ink and her name. Was this just a story written by teller, was all of this time wasted. I began to feel my self sink into the ground, my torn dress seemed to remind me of the self I was taught to loathe.

A story telling website was all I found, stories that were told by people who were safe and well. And then I read the words "It made no sense to dream of myself as someone important or self assured.....". How could this be? My words, one after the other filled the page. My story shared with the world, but how could this be? The final sentence of my story read, "winner of the grand prize of $20,000 is....me"

This was impossible, I hadn't entered a competition or written a fictional story. I opened the notebook, the one that had found me that day, its pages full of pain, and it was empty.