"Have... you... really...given up?!" he asked again as my consciousness sank into its deepest recesses.
I said nothing. It was no longer possible; everything around me had transformed into a dark outline, and perhaps because of the guilt in the frayed edges of my consciousness... a memory began to take shape.
.
.
.
The rain pounded against the windows of our room, a constant, almost hypnotic sound. I sat at the desk, pen between my fingers, the blanket covering my legs.
I was trying to write.
I was trying—for once—to create something interesting.
"My throat hurts," I heard him murmur from the bed.
My chest tightened for a moment.
"Be quiet," I replied without taking my eyes off the paper. "I'm writing."
I heard the soft rustle of the sheets as he sat up a little.
"Another letter to your sister?"
I shook my head, moving the pen more forcefully than necessary.
"No. It's not a letter. It's just… something personal. Nothing important."
"A diary?"
I hesitated.
