• 3 am (part one) by: Metrostationlvr

    I woke up screaming again. I looked over at my clock in the pitch black darkness, not so unlike my dream... The bright red numbers read 2:56 am. Great, just peachy. My screams never bothered my Father anymore. He didn't come in with his gun like used to when it first started. I wish I had something, anything, to stop this, this, this pain! Maybe if I was prettier, or just related to people better. But I didn't. And that was that. I couldn't change, probably not even if I tried. And trust me had I tried... I faded into the swirly, hazy feeling of remembering something. I was remembering weeks ago at the kitchen table with my Father.
    "Morganne please! Can I help?! What can I do?!?!" He'd asked me as we were having our pasta dinner. I was taken aback by this sudden outburst. I was a 17 year old girl, I usually didn't ask my Father for help.
    "What do you mean?" I'd asked. "
    "I realize you're having a hard time with something I probably don't understand, like a guy-" I cut him off.
    "It is not a freaking guy!" I'd nearly yelled.
    "Hey watch your language. But anyway, I know it's something I don't understand, but I just want to help you. The screaming at night, well to be quite frank, well it scares me," he'd admitted sheepishly.
    "I know, I'm sorry. I'm... trying... so hard," I responded trying not to cry.
    "I know you're trying. I've never seen anyone try so hard in my life. I'm just worried about you, that's all."
    I came back to the present when my Dad knocked on my bedroom door.
    "You ok?"
    "Yeah, just the usual."
    "Ok I'm going back to bed. Night."
    "Night"
    I didn't want more time to dwell about the past, but there was no way in hell that I was going to go to sleep again. I decided some internet surfing would be sufficient. Then I remembered that it was 3:00 in the morning and my computer was an old, crappy, noisy monster that would wake my Dad up even more. So the computer was ruled out. All of my books had to do with romance and friends. That's why I stopped reading. Wait a second. Not all of my books had to do with romance. There was an old bulky book, bound with leather, a coat of dust, and had an intricate golden border of swirling vines. The title was, "Things of the untold." What the hell? Was that supposed to mean something? Oh well. It was something to read, right? I mean it wasn't like it would get me in trouble. Would it?