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Lovely Hatred

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Silence. Must my entire state of living consist of the deadly silence that is expected of me? Must my desire of adventure cease, and must I be confined to a living of this order. Can't I fulfill my desire for love? Why did the Holy Spirit drop me in this unpleasant environment, where no soul may ever speak a word with out facing the ever so dreaded impeachment? "Jolie, why must you slouch so despicably? Be a proper dear and sit up straight," my mother said loudly, interrupting my thoughts. "Sorry mamma," I softly said, automatically correcting my so called "despicable slouching". Suddenly, papa slammed his muscular fist on the small wooden table, causing it to shake dangerously. "How many repeating times must I tell you lasses not to call your respectable mother the peasant name "mamma"! Why must you call her mamma, why not act like hooligans and call her moms," Papa bellowed belligerently, as mumma let out a loud gasp. "Drew! Don't use such slang language, they are as naughty as can be at the time," mumma scolded gently, shaking her index finger with mock threatening.

What appeared to be my life to the unknown and known public were luxurious benefits, and the pampering of one's soul. One from my class might opinionate me being highly gifted with the shower of immense and uncountable wealth and a ponderous burden to the one who is blessed to own me. I dislike this impeached life of freedomless terror, and only one chosen road for thou body to pursue. Unlike many of my gender, I shall end up in hell, holding my livid screams as I'm being thrashed to my decease, being seen conversing with the opposite sex. What life was thought to be given to my intrepid soul by the holy anointer? Emphasizing the unluck, I, at times, may be found in a damned sanctuary begging the fiend for a much less lavish life for the simple exchange of freedom to my enclosed soul.

After that immensely frightening supper, I was forced to retire to my isolated quarters by my papa, being the substitute of impeachment. Sighing I rested my weary body on my imperial bed, staring up at the tender carvings on the ceiling when the sleeping spirit possessed me, leading me into the fantasies of a nonexistent life I so longed to have. After the passing of many hours, a pain there was, not a prickly one, but a scratchy one on my ear. Suddenly, my unconscious body jumped, creating a paining sensation in my rib cage, due to the thumping of my terrified heart, notorious for its coldness, and open for love. My self-admired and public-admired almond eyes fluttered open, as I rose, seeking the spot on my impeccable bed where the pain was coming from. Finally, after feeling every edge of my cot, I found the source of pain to my frail body. It was nothing more than an old crumpled up envelope, bearing the words, "Do not read until it is only two of the receivers eyes observing.” I did not comprehend the message, though for the next hours I was persistent in attempting. Until I found understanding that was seeking me. The human who composed this envelope and the message it bares, simply wanted only I to lay eyes upon it. Questions filled my unreadable face, now making it fairly easy to read. What must this person seek that must be kept unknown from the bodies that live beside me?





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