I desperately wanted her to understand, but all she talked about was why I wasn't eating and the cuts on my arms. She said there would be more ugly scars, that they would always be there, a reminder of what I put myself and my family through. She kept asking why. I asked if she wondered what Silvia's very last thought was before she gassed herself to death. She didn't understand what I was talking about and continued with her blind guessing game.

If the truth be told, I've always felt at home with a pen in my hand.Or with it tangled in my hair, stuffed in a dirty back pocket, or lost somewhere in my bag. I like scribbling about everything and nothing, stringing together long lines just for myself. I always have. It’s like a childhood blanket for my half-grown self. This is how I plan, how I think ahead. Always these pencil marks and crumpled pages.

If the truth be told, I should also admit that I’m not particularly poetic. This is just how my thoughts look when they turn into text, and what you’re reading now is the result of my safety blanket and me spending some extra time together.

Simply put, a few melting candles cast a dim glow on the walls as I wonder what to do next.And maybe I’m stating the obvious when I say that three pens and a pile of paper sit beside me, wondering the same thing.

Ever since mother left two years ago, first for the drink and then for good, Father had been slipping further into his own darkness. The whiskey he once shared to ward of the biting cold was now hoarded, always within arms reach, his solace for a life that seemed to heavy to carry. Percy trailed after him, skulking into bars and picking fights he was too young to win, leaving Alice to shoulder the care of Eliza and Henry alone.