blankslate's blog

Three days. Three days and I'm eighteen, as far as anyone knows. And I don't know what happens afterward, not really. I mean, I know I'm not going anywhere. Mom needs me, Caleb and Dean and Lullaby... well, they don't need me? But I think they'd welcome the help.

So, whatever I don't know? I know that much; I'm staying here. Knowing more would be easier if I knew where everything with Caleb was, which is stupid of me. Like I should be planning my possible future based on a guy. Retard.

Can't sleep. Can't eat. Can't go for a walk (fuck you too, moon). Can't focus on a page long enough to make two words make sense. Can't practice, if I do 'Stallion Tramples the Face' stance one more time I'm gonna break my own legs.

Can't block out Skye when she got grabbed, feet kicking ruts through the snow and down to dirt, like a kid making a snow angel. Can't stop hearing the way her scream got ripped away, filled in with eating sounds preceding every jet of blood. Can't tell my mom, or anyone. People would think it was werewolves, and I can't let them think that.

Stupid shit. Seriously, I swear mom knows when I use this thing; the writing sounds are way too fast for it to be homework. And she's probably sitting in the kitchen just smiling to herself. If I didn't love her? I'd hate her.

I'm going to try to sleep soon, but I don't think it'll go too well. Nightmares are something I'm used to? But somehow, remembering them makes the prospect that much worse. And I know I'm going to remember them. I helped kill something tonight. Someone. Caleb said I didn't kill it, but I wonder if it would've lived long after I ran it over. And hey, werewolves. He told me they were out there? But I think it's like telling someone that fire is hot doesn't compare to dousing them in gasoline and throwing a cigarette at them.