Odd, that I should find myself on all fours just minutes to midnight on the bedroom floor, folding a pair of socks. Odder still, that I should be in my simple party frock but not partying like any other girl would be. Instead, I stacked the loose paper sheets together, straightened the pillow, and arranged the many pill boxes on the bedside table. The sickroom. I feel myself being sucked back, or rather, being sucked out of my present self - the girl who laughs, who smiles, who speaks to people in general. The same old conflicts bring with them the same old heavy feeling. That's when she finds it hard to smile for no reason, to laugh for courtesy's sake, to speak for fear of rejection. It's times like this when her only comfort is to grab the closest pen and write out her aches in her diary. Why'd she choose something so dumb and immobile? Probably so she could be sure it couldn't possibly hurt her back, if it wanted to. Or even without meaning to; the way humans do.
Behind the dull throb, she knows; she knows, it should be gladness she feels instead of weariness. She knows what doesn't kill her will only make her stronger. It always does. And she has learnt this way, many times. She's just got to keep her grip and not let go, even if her nails sink past the outer layer.
And I don't know why I suddenly switch to telling it in the third person narrative. It's almost as though I'm trying to distance myself away from her, whoever she is. Whoever she may resemble. However much she sounds like me. I'm doing it again. She says,
"Don't leave. Stay with the girl who laughs."
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