“Write, come on. You’ve been doing this all your life.”
Ludovica gurgled out to herself, leaned against the pillow. The pencil was thrown to the floor, landing among the crumpled papers with failed admissions. The wench’s mind had begun to find a image of its own. The youngster she had taken care of for a while now, her neighbor. The child’s parents abandoning him, most nights the junior was sat to the porch, attempting to drown out his parents moans after every melee. “You’re gonna end up alright, pal. It gets better. Somewhere. Someday. You’ll remember, you won the fight against the fright.” The jane simpered, remembering the words she had told the teenager. Her pencil was picked up. She supposed writing about the boy, the poor boy, named Sam. Sam, Sam, Sam. God, he was the best kid. So intelligent, she could’ve sworn there were days where he was the one taking care of her. The boy was much mature for his age— only laying at sixteen. Already towering over the woman. The untold stories about Sam had led to the known ones. Ludovica thought that way of everyone. She hadn’t given up— ever. On anyone. She intended to keep it that way, her pencil moved.
Unwed, admirer of all. Ink slinger. Muffled. Considering. Spent. Discerning. Complicated character. Fixation with serial killers, not only inwardly. High-handed. Vigilant. Stumper.
Comment your favored quote for a “To be honest.”