Okay, I'm posting the first page of something that's slowly coming to me. If it draws anyone in, I will continue. This is a bit different from my usual style of writing, but here it goes...
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The darkness of night was a mysterious thing. Maybe that was why she loved traveling along the broken path so much at this time of night. A broken path beside the sparkling water, once well-traveled but now isolated. That was what this path was. And it was shrouded in the mysterious darkness.
Charlotte felt the same way oh-so-often. She was mysterious to the world – nobody knew her or understood her. She was broken and she couldn't be fixed. There were beautiful people in her life who loved her and cared for her, but she was forever seperated from them. She had been a social person before. But not now as she traveled the broken path.
Nobody understood Charlotte at all, and it made her terribly upset. She had nobody to share her trials with. They'd all give her that same look... That same menacing look. The look that said 'I-don't-want-your-problems' and 'you're-too-screwed-up-and-should-go-get-help'. Because it was true... Charlotte was screwed up.
No, scratch that. To say Charlotte was screwed up would be a complement in comparison to how Charlotte saw herself. She saw herself as broken... As a no-good teenager who nobody would ever love and who tried to fill the void from what she thought had been loved. She tried to fill the void with drugs. She tried to fill the void with sex. She tried to fill the void with anything she could to get warm – to rid her heart of the coldness inside.
At least, she'd love for someone to believe that she was trying to feel a void of a lost lover with drugs and sex. The truth was, she'd never tried to fill a void with drugs and sex. There wasn't a void. Not a void like that, anyway. She'd never done drugs. And about the sex... She'd never, ever consider doing that before marriage, she wasn't raised that way.
In fact, she grew up as a very good child and was raised by two loving parents. She'd had a very good life growing up in a small town. Her dad was a surgeon. Her mom was a teacher. She was one of five children – her parents were very much in-love. They'd planned to only have three, but Charlotte's mom had given birth to two sets of twins. Both sets were fraternal. Thankfully.
So, naturally, Charlotte was part of a big family. The first set of twins, Garret and David, were both out of the house by now. Garret was attending NYU and had moved out of state, and David was working with some friends from highschool trying to get a startup going in the music industry. That left the house with only three kids.
Charlotte was the youngest of the kids, at age fifteen. Her older brother and sister, the other set of twins in the family, were both seventeen and in their senior year of highschool. Charlotte was still a sophomore. Her older brother and sister, Mason and Ally, kept each other company. That left poor Charlotte to her own when she was at home. Maybe that was why she got into writing.
It started in middle school, actually. Sometime around her sixth grade year, her then-best-friend Elizabeth had gotten her into it. Elizabeth and Charlotte hadn't really been included in the activities of the other kids. They were outcasts, to a degree. It had only gotten worse as the years had gone on.
Charlotte and Elizabeth had written stories with each other to pass the long hours of exclusion during school. It was their escape. Still was, for Charlotte anyway. It was where she could go to write about her feelings or whatever was on her mind. She had stories about magical quests and flying superheros and princesses and stay-at-home-moms. And everything in between.
