The Girl At The Last

Chapter 65

Before you begin the chapter note that this is written in omniscient third person narrative, this serves as a demo for the last conclusion part, which is the last ten part of the book (we still have a long way for that btw) of this book which will probably contain multiple back story revelation about the characters. so this method of writing is what i feel is best preferable. please do write down your opinion on how this turned out. hope you enjoy and yeah, try to be positive after this because, uh. well you'll know why :)

P.S I'll use this [◼️◼️◼️] symbol for this kind of Pov.

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Thomas had unconsciously always as a child gazed at the sky, his small hands clasped behind his head, his messy mop of hairs resting against them as he laid on the damp wet grass. Refusing to cry, refusing to break.

The constellations of stars, so far away. Distant and out of reach, far, dead and at peace. That's what fascinated him at such young age. The deadness of it. They can't feel, the pain the emotions. They can't feel the Isolation.

Nor the kind of burns and gash like his body suffered, or the way he pressed his petite spine over the cold blades of grass for some relief. They simply floated, without a care.

He wanted to do that, exist but not live.

They say you become a star once you die. He reasoned to his naive self.

May be one day. He decided.

A low whimper passed his body, the thin T shirt soaked in mud and damp from the sweat did nothing to cease the cold from consuming his nerves to a shiver.

He hated it. How he couldn't even control the insides of his own body. Suddenly he was angry, furious at his incapability to anything. What could a eight year old even do? He wasn't even aware that he wasn't suppose too live a life as such, see or feel or even think the way he does.

He sat up, grunting with his soft young voice as the ache filled his bones. With the first thing that his skinny hands could've grabbed, that being the pot of flowers beside, he trashed it. Watched the content gut out, the mud bleed, like him.

He felt at ease.

Soon the other followed. A crash and heave of breath.

Did he felt the same way when he did this to him?

The power, the authority.

It was the first time when Thomas hadn't cried, balled up under his blankets. Wishing to never hear his dry, drunk voice call him by it. Wishing he was not Thomas.

"Thomas" the boy's leg cemented to the floor, just like the case once was with the roots of those plants he destroyed. His little heart withered with fear, an emotion he learned to choke into dust as days ascended. But at that time he knew he was done for.

The crunch from those shiny pair of shoes was like the church bell for the honor of demise for him. He wanted to apologize, beg for an excuse. Like he always does. But that night something changed in him, like the tidal waves has taken a drastic turn, and are now beyond the grasp of its usual momentum. The words of apology swallowed itself at the back of his throat.

For the initial time he was punished for what he actually did. Broke some plant. Bled a little more.

For him it was justifiable. For him thats what childhood was all about.

He never cried after that day, or heard the word sorry being echoed out in his own voice.

The next morning he came back to the spot, the aftermath of his tantrums. The mess made him uneasy so he began picking up the pieces, soggy roots and some books on how to bring them back to life. He started working on it the very evening, no regards to the dirt under his finger nails and stains on his expensive clothes.