Post by Renesmee Cullen on Aug 25, 2010 7:00:04 GMT -8
Unknown Date.
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dear reader,
[/size]He kissed me.
Or rather, I kissed him.
Or did I?
I had to write this down. Logs. These are logs. Memories. I’ll take this back with me home, if my escape doesn’t include running away. Then there won’t be time. He just left the room, as silent as air. They all do. But I noticed his exit especially. It’s around 4:00am at night. I’m on my broken bed – the one he smashed – leaning over a piece of paper and writing this. Why I’m writing this in detail?
. . . . I don’t know? Maybe it makes it easier to . . . think about. Easier to process. Oh, dammit. I’m just flustered. My heart is pounding. My lips feel like the biggest part about my face now.
But I thought this was supposed to make me feel light, like falling feathers. Father explained it like that. He told me, because I asked about it once. . . when he was kissing mother. He said it was supposed to feel like you were flying, like there was butterflies in your stomach, a warm, central feeling in your core – happiness. And for the most part, I just felt one of those. Happiness.
But. There’s this. . . guilt? On my shoulders?
. . . Why?
