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SymmaGirl2 said:
Enough to write a novel at age 13. Here's an excerpt from the beginning. It's called Alone She Ran, and it's my own original work. My first non-fanfic! :3
I woke up in pain.
At first, the pain almost felt good. Kind of like a soft stinging, my only hold to reality. Suddenly, the pain turned harsh and bitter, yanking at my very soul, burning behind my eyes. My limbs shook, and I vaguely felt warm liquid running down my legs. Blood. I had felt the sensation before. But where? My mind ached, and I felt as if it were a blank slate; an empty chalkboard at the beginning of class. It felt like something was supposed to be there, but, no matter how hard I searched through my mind, that something wasn't there.
The pain returned.
I fluttered open my eyes, groaning softly as a pressure hit my thigh. I peered at my leg as best as I could without moving my aching head too much, and I saw the pressure was coming from a thick branch pressing on a rather deep cut. For some reason, it felt familiar; the dull throbbing of my head, the painful cuts lining my arms and legs, the crusty feeling of my hair, like something had dried there. 'More blood,' I thought, though it took a lot of effort just to summon the strength to think even mildly coherently. I barely understood the thought myself. Blood rushed through my ears, my হৃদয় pounded heavily. It felt like I was supposed to be running.
From what?
Once again, I couldn't remember. I knew I was supposed to get up and run.
Run.
The word felt good in my thoughts, almost like a sweet memory. Beautiful, beautiful memories. Although I couldn't place why, I knew that running was important to me. I noticed that, through the brown stain of dried blood, my shoes read 'Reeboks' in white, and my shoes were perfectly laced, despite the condition of my clothes.
Oh, my clothes!
My red T-shirt was bright red. I could make out faint spots of white, though, so I guessed it was supposed to be white originally. Unless whatever I was supposed to be running from got Bleach on it. I strongly doubted that, though. My faded jeans were splattered with red as well. 'Is it even possible to lose this much blood without dying?' I thought. Apparently so, otherwise I wouldn't have been laying there. Then again, I could've been dead. Then why did it hurt so badly? Death, life, is there really a difference between the two? Who knew at that point. I twitched my fingers experimentally, as if trying to see whether অথবা not my body remembered how to move. I curled my fingers into a fist, and released them into a flat hand again. I repeated this action several times before I decided that my fingers weren't damaged.
I moved my leg to the left a bit, trying to get the branch off. I winced in pain as the roughness of the heavy wood rubbed against my injuries.
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