You start a story with a blank page, then you choose a problem to create the purpose of that story. Quite intriguing isn't it? Indeed it is, but not until the author has made a very bad decision and made you suffer in that problem causing you to drastically lose sanity.
Apparently my own author wanted me to suffer for a long time, no wonder why I'm a complete mess whose rationality has been drained down the pipe.
Like a blank plain paper, my skin is white. Bandages wrapped around my arms and thighs; some loose, some tight. I can feel my mind get heavy from carrying my own problems, as if I was leaving a heavy burden on me.
Like a lost child, I stood in front of what seemed to be an orphanage. My clothes ripped and dangling all over, soaking wet because of the rain.
The huge bruise across my eye, visibly make me ache whenever I try to touch my eye to wipe the tears away.
I was a lone vulnerable child that day. The old man who saw me that day deluged in cigarettes and smelled like vending machine coffees.
He said, "Dear God, child, what happened to you?"
My parents didn't want me.
Yet, I remember those faces of the ones who tried to help me. They presented me a blank sheet of paper telling me to write down my problems, but I couldn't. I could only stare at the blank paper, as if it was an endless void of nothingness.