A long time ago

Once, a long time ago, I wrote a story. In high school, we were told to write a story-anything the teacher said, what ever you feel, write what you know. I read it to the class (we all had to) and I was never looked at the same way again. By child, and adult alike.

It was morbid. Scary. I was into things like that.

Its about a girl, in an institution. Haunted by a demon (he was described in detail in the story), he makes her do things-nothing horrible or un mentionable. But destroys everything she is on the inside. It makes her conflict, and rage. Be silent and still. To still. She hurts herself. Until the anger that no one is listening makes her act. Her reaction is extreme, and she kills those who try to help her. She can't see that they're trying to help. She's hurt for so long. And no one, not the demon, or her doctors will let her rest. She's tired. And with most cases of intense exhaustion can no longer control her behaviour. When she's done killing everyone around her, she kills herself. She regrets all the things she's done to these people. Every second of every day, and the demon inside her head has turned into a reminder system. A blinking light of all the wrong she's done. In her last thought (also the ending of the short story) is reprieve, and silence of her mind. Nothing. Finally. And she forgives herself. Then black emptiness.

I had to meet with the school guidance counsellor. And talk to the teacher. I never wrote a fictionalized story again. The part that scared them, wasn't a morbid warning against demon possession. It was a cry to fear other's minds. Or your own. It depends on how you were feeling that day.

I burned it-remember I was 16 and dramatic. And never mentioned it again. I never wrote a story again.