Lucy's Poetry Book

Author's Notes:

Starting with this one, I'm going to post a fun fact explaining the topic the last chapter covered. Also, I'm not sure how often I'll post this. Right now, I don't have any more ideas, but I may be inspired sometime in the future. As you can probably tell my dark writing is much, much shorter than everything else I do haha.

Run, Brother Lincoln: a dramatized description of a person dealing with Generalized Anxiety Disorder.

Disclaimer: The Loud House Copyright Nickelodeon (2017)

Atonement

"Sometimes we become such a failure in life…

…that we can only atone our sins in death."

A twenty-two year old Lynn Loud sat in a wheelchair in a darkened apartment room.

She was dressed only in her nightgown; being unable to properly wear pants anymore due to a permanent paralysis from the waist down.

Her life was shining brightly through college. She'd earned a scholarship, signed on with a professional team just in the last month, and went out with some friends to celebrate it.

She'd offered to be the designated driver… but in the hype and adrenaline of her future success, she'd forgotten.

A few drinks later, they'd piled into a friend's minivan, and Lynn didn't think twice about her wooziness.

She didn't wake up until a week later in the hospital. She was told the vehicle had veered off course and into a tree.

They had to operate on her legs. They could save them from amputation, but they wouldn't work again.

And she was the only survivor.

It had only been a couple weeks since then. She felt physical pain in her lower spine, and a ghostly pain where she knew her legs would be but could no longer recognize their presence.

The lonesome girl curled up, forcing her fisted hands up to cover her eyes, as she wept for the thousandth time.

She was a failure.

An utter disgrace.

A murderer.

A betrayer.

She held everything great in her hands for one fleeting second…

And now everything was gone.

She turned toward her bed. She wheeled herself over to it and picked up a ribbon.

It was a struggle, but she managed to wrap her legs (by her knees) twice and knotted the red ribbon tightly.

Then, she reached over and picked up a slightly-curved knife, a tanto.

She wheeled herself to a mirror and took one last look at herself.

Tears stained her pink cheeks. Her hair was matted and unkempt. Her eyes were dull. Her body was thin and malnourished.

She held up the blade to her major artery, beating within her vulnerable neck.

She spoke to no one in particular:

"Sometimes we become such a failure in life… that we can only atone our sins in death."

The drops of red painting the mirror served as a record for her atonement; the restoration of her honor.

A sallow girl closed her book, dropping her pen lifelessly to the desk.

She turned toward her sleeping sister; watched as her chest slowly rose and fell in time with her steady breathing.

She walked over as silent as the moon's shadow.

And stroked her sister's pink cheek with a pale, clammy hand.