My friend and I love writing, and have been working on a book together for the past nine months...
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Waiting. For the past 300 years, I’ve been waiting. For the right time. For the right person to set me free. I’ve been living ever since 1695, and yet I’ve never lived a day of my life. If I can even call it that. Every day of these horrid 300 years, I’ve lived with the possibility that I may be stuck in this place. Forever.
I can’t leave. I can’t do anything. I can talk, I can walk, I can hear, and I can feel. I can’t see. But it doesn’t even really matter. I don’t have
reason to see. It’s not like I have people to talk to and interact with. I haven’t had interaction with anybody since that abhorrent day, and the death of my family and fiancé.
All I can do is sit by this lonely, old, weeping willow with its’ feathery blue leaves and cracking grey bark. I know every contour; every line and inch of this willow. I’ve spent so much time hiding in the pale misty shadows near the base of the tree, provided by its’ secretive leaning branch’s. I don’t need sight to tell what the colors and looks of this tree are; I can feel it. I know I have no reason to hide, but I do, out of habit. Just in case she comes back. She murdered my family, and delivered me a fate worse than death. I haven’t aged a day, forever seventeen, her reminder of my pitiful state.
I’ve watched people come and go, overheard their conversations, guessed what might happen, commented on actions, harmless and vile alike. But no one sees me. No one hears me. No one even knows I’m there.