is the way I insist on rating my days as good or bad. Good moments happen alongside bad moments all the time. Why should they necessarily affect each other? And why can’t I stop myself from qualifying my days like this, illegitimizing the moments that make them up?
"I recollect in short that though I was deeply interested in my author I found myself, at the turn of a page and with his spell all scattered, looking straight up from him and hard at the door of my room."
Way to break down the fourth wall, Henry James…
No seriously though. Great work at making literature nerds immediately identify with your story. I was scared.
Sucky fanfiction I wrote of "Babylon Revisited". I'm an English major, baby!
She was running through a forest, looking for something, she knew not what… A woman’s screams pierced through the pitch black air… A man shouted, his anger tangible in the night… Cold hands grasped at her through blue darkness… She was losing something she didn’t know she had… It was slipping away… she was falling, falling down into the darkness
A rough hand pushed her shoulder, and she snapped upright in bed, sheets twisted around her body.
“Here,” a scruffy voice said as Lincoln Peters pushed a glass of water into her hands and stood awkwardly at the end of the bed. She nodded, and he seemed to take that as a sign to leave, to go back to his room with his perfect wife. Alone in her room, Honoria was left with the phantoms that haunted her daily.
Her father was coming back today. She could hardly contain her excitement. Maybe now, they could go back to the way things had been before… before the incident. She would see him and get her life back. She wouldn’t be scared of silly things anymore. She wouldn’t have to suffer through Aunt Marion’s tirades. Her father could make everything better. She could go back to the days when she had been happy and fearless… Surely, surely her father could bring those days back.
He came, and he took her out for lunch, and he talked with her, and it was almost like old times; he made her laugh and feel as if nothing could touch her. They went to the vaudeville and it was such fun: all the colors and the noise and the performers. Honoria thought life should be like the vaudeville: vibrant and colorful and noisy and full of life. Not like her aunt’s house, where everything had to be just so, and she was always afraid of being wrong, and every time her aunt looked at her she felt like she was looking at her dead mother as well, and she couldn’t escape the feeling that she was alone and always would be.
Her dad wanted her to live with him! He did! She had heard him and Uncle Lincoln talking about it. He would take her to live with him, and they could live in a beautiful little house, and he would always love her and she would never be alone again, as she so often was in this house, even though so many people were in and out all the time. He could love her, because he loved her best now. He would never leave her. They could be together and it would be just like the times when they lived in the little flat in Paris with her mother.
She couldn’t live with her father. She didn’t understand why, but her uncle had told her that she couldn’t see her father again for a while. So she sat, again, alone, in the middle of the couch of the big house that bustled with people who she could never know.
That night, she had the nightmare again. But this time, she stopped running. She sat down in the middle of the pitch-black forest, tightly hugged her knees to her chest, and listened to the sounds of her life go by.