cutebrit14

        I walked up to the entrance of the library and took a deep breath. I gripped the book I was holding tighter and walked through the door. There was a loud beeping noise and in front of my the doors switched probably 10 times before stopping on a glass see through door. I pushed it open and walked in to see rows upon rows of floor to ceiling bookcases, all having to do with war. Every war in Earth's recorded history.     This library reads a specific part of your mind as you walk through the first doors and puts you in one of it's millions of rooms. Most of the time though, for the peop

    I sighed as I sank into the couch. I stared at the black book that lay on the table in front of me. Lately, after I was finished with my job I was reading it. It was about war. I never liked war. Not one bit. It was because to me it always seemed to bloody and fully of gore. After I died, though, I didn't really hate it anymore, because my whole job was about blood, gore, and killing.    I realized some time ago, probably back when I was in 4th grade, that my birth name, Markie, meant warlike. Funny, how now I might be going to war. I thought about how when I was alive I was never very warlike, but now, maybe, just maybe, I am truly war

    I walked down the street leading to my apartment thinking of why I had felt like someone was watching me. And who was that guy with the pink eyes anyway? He seemed very suspicious. I'll just have to ask Hate or Death about it. They know a lot. Apparently Hate was the one who found me and suggested that I be Insanity. I don't dislike Hate at all. I don't even exactly remember what she looks like. I've only seen her once while she was rushing around with a stack of books in her hands.     I was about to walk into the apartment building when I heard Hate yell my name. It was the first time I heard her

I am only an insomniac when it rains. The pitter patter of the raindrops reminds me of the pitter patter of cat paws. (He liked to sleep at my feet when I could barely think, just to make me feel better. I think you used to tell him to.) I wish I could wrap your memories around my spine and wear them as a backbone, because they are stronger than the arch my broken spined back seems to have developed of late. (Spines are oddly brittle, and a lot like wrists. Easy to break and forever to heal.) But I cannot depend of any of that anymore. So I wear red lipstick and high heels and go to parties and tell strangers how amazing they are to be we