UNKEMPT JOURNALby rukia
July 10, 19**
The lady told me to write this.
My name is Kurosaki Ichigo. I am 7 years old. My momma died last year.
I killed her. They say I dinnt but I did.
The lady said if I wrote bad stuff down then it goes away and things feel better.
I think she is a lyer.
September 7, 19**
My name is Kurosaki Ichigo and I’m 9 years old. The therapissed said I have to keep a journal. I don’t know why I have to. I don’t really like to write.
I had to go see the school therapissed because I got into a fight. It wasn’t a big deal and it wasn’t like it was my first fight ever, but I got in trouble because I got caught. I think the whole thing is stupid.
The therapissed called Dad and told him that I'm an angry child. Then he said I have to write my feelings down on paper so I won’t “act out.” I remember that I had to do this a few years ago, but it didn’t help me feel better back then.
I don’t feel much better right now either. I’m going to go play soccer with Tatsuki-chan. This is a dumb journal anyway.
May 22, 19**
My name is Kurosaki Ichigo and I’m 14. I got caught fighting again, so I got sent to the school therapist again.
The teachers threatened to call my father if I didn’t cooperate with the counselor. Not that I wasn't cooperating in the first place; they just wanted to make that fact real clear. I think it’s just because they’re scared. It doesn't matter. It's not like they could even begin to understand what I have to deal with all the time.
Speaking of which, a ghost visited me last night. She said she died in a car accident in Nagoya. Her forehead wouldn’t stop oozing blood and she was missing her left hand – not the arm or wrist, just the hand.
I asked her why she came all the way to Karakura to wake up a primary school student at 2am. She said she didn’t know - she followed her instincts.
The lady thought she would be in heaven by now. She demanded answers from me. She wanted to know why she had to come to me, of all people. She would do anything to find out why she died and why everything was so unfair.
They all want to know the same stuff; they all ask the exact same questions.
I gave her the same answer that I usually give to ghosts who bother me in the middle of the night. I told her to go away, to go home, to find the people she left behind and take a little comfort in her lingering existence in the memories of her loved ones. This isn’t heaven, lady, and I don’t even know if anything important happens after all this crap.
I’m just a kid, I told her. I can try to look after the people who live around me, but I can’t save the dead. Everyone wishes they could, but no one can save the dead.
So, the ghost lady sobbed all night by the window sill. Hopefully, the noise didn't wake Karin up in the next room - that happens sometimes. Nothing I could do would shut the lady up, so I flipped on my stereo and turned it down low enough so it wouldn’t bother anyone else in the house. I faced away from the crying lady and tried to listen to my CD instead. I happen to like music a lot. It's something I can concentrate on to block out all of the complaints of the dead.
Don’t get me wrong. I do feel sorry for the lady; she was handed a real shit of a deal – only 24 short years to build a life for herself and then during a shopping trip to the store to buy soda, BAM, a careless truck driver mows her down at a crosswalk. Life and death works that way.
It sucks, but that's why ghosts come find me - they need someone to bitch to and I'm the only one who is able to listen.
I’m not such a nice guy that I would lie to her or any of the other spirits I encounter. I don’t see why I have to pretend that everything is okay. I mean, what am I supposed to say? “Yes, you’re dead, but now you have your whole after-life ahead of you”? That’s the kind of bullshit that I see spirit mediums shovel into people's minds on TV. I’m not like those fakers. I may not know the truth, but I refuse to make up a cheap substitute.
Lately, I've overheard a lot of teachers calling me anti-social. Maybe it’s just another misconception about me, or maybe they’re right. It doesn’t matter. If they are, I don’t see why I should be blamed for that. I put up with too many dead people on a regular basis, so why should I give a shit about the problems of living people, too?
I don’t need social and emotional drama to make me aware of my own existence. I don’t need to hurt others, manipulate people, or pull stupid stunts just to feel alive. I know I’m alive because I encounter death everyday. I can tell the difference. I don’t need anything more to stress me out. That’s why I listen to music more often than I listen to people. It drowns out a lot of the static noise.
At least I’ve got Chad around to hang out with. One of the best things about him is that he doesn’t bother to speak unless he’s got something to say.
Too many people talk because they are scared of silence, but Chad isn’t scared of anything. A lot of people tend to talk shit because they’ve used all of their words up already, but he makes every word count for something. I can respect that.
So the whole point is that I barely had any sleep last night. When I met Chad at school this morning, Ooshima and his cronies came up and started talking shit. So I lost my strained patience, we kicked their asses and ended up in the counselor’s office.
The school therapist said that we’ve got emotional issues and crap like that. He wanted us to go home and write in a journal. We don’t have to worry about turning it in, so we can write whatever we want. He wanted us to figure out why we are so angry at the world. That way, he said, we could work on fixing all of our “social inadequacies.”
He’s got it all wrong, of course.
I’m not angry at the world. I’m only angry at myself.
And I will never be able to “fix” that anger and make it go away.
That's because Mom can't come back and make things like it should have been.
I can’t save the dead. No one can.
Therapeutic, my ass.
~*~*~
Yeah, I’m sorry for the messy structure and misspellings (some on purpose). I never said Ichigo was a poet. :P
Hmm… I wonder what Chad’s journal was like… -_-
Now I'm going to go run and hide because![[info]](http://stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif)
razberryl will probably come hunt me down and offer me up as a live sacrifice to the Choco-Fanfic Muse. *whimper* o_0
July 10, 19**
The lady told me to write this.
My name is Kurosaki Ichigo. I am 7 years old. My momma died last year.
I killed her. They say I dinnt but I did.
The lady said if I wrote bad stuff down then it goes away and things feel better.
I think she is a lyer.
September 7, 19**
My name is Kurosaki Ichigo and I’m 9 years old. The therapissed said I have to keep a journal. I don’t know why I have to. I don’t really like to write.
I had to go see the school therapissed because I got into a fight. It wasn’t a big deal and it wasn’t like it was my first fight ever, but I got in trouble because I got caught. I think the whole thing is stupid.
The therapissed called Dad and told him that I'm an angry child. Then he said I have to write my feelings down on paper so I won’t “act out.” I remember that I had to do this a few years ago, but it didn’t help me feel better back then.
I don’t feel much better right now either. I’m going to go play soccer with Tatsuki-chan. This is a dumb journal anyway.
May 22, 19**
My name is Kurosaki Ichigo and I’m 14. I got caught fighting again, so I got sent to the school therapist again.
The teachers threatened to call my father if I didn’t cooperate with the counselor. Not that I wasn't cooperating in the first place; they just wanted to make that fact real clear. I think it’s just because they’re scared. It doesn't matter. It's not like they could even begin to understand what I have to deal with all the time.
Speaking of which, a ghost visited me last night. She said she died in a car accident in Nagoya. Her forehead wouldn’t stop oozing blood and she was missing her left hand – not the arm or wrist, just the hand.
I asked her why she came all the way to Karakura to wake up a primary school student at 2am. She said she didn’t know - she followed her instincts.
The lady thought she would be in heaven by now. She demanded answers from me. She wanted to know why she had to come to me, of all people. She would do anything to find out why she died and why everything was so unfair.
They all want to know the same stuff; they all ask the exact same questions.
I gave her the same answer that I usually give to ghosts who bother me in the middle of the night. I told her to go away, to go home, to find the people she left behind and take a little comfort in her lingering existence in the memories of her loved ones. This isn’t heaven, lady, and I don’t even know if anything important happens after all this crap.
I’m just a kid, I told her. I can try to look after the people who live around me, but I can’t save the dead. Everyone wishes they could, but no one can save the dead.
So, the ghost lady sobbed all night by the window sill. Hopefully, the noise didn't wake Karin up in the next room - that happens sometimes. Nothing I could do would shut the lady up, so I flipped on my stereo and turned it down low enough so it wouldn’t bother anyone else in the house. I faced away from the crying lady and tried to listen to my CD instead. I happen to like music a lot. It's something I can concentrate on to block out all of the complaints of the dead.
Don’t get me wrong. I do feel sorry for the lady; she was handed a real shit of a deal – only 24 short years to build a life for herself and then during a shopping trip to the store to buy soda, BAM, a careless truck driver mows her down at a crosswalk. Life and death works that way.
It sucks, but that's why ghosts come find me - they need someone to bitch to and I'm the only one who is able to listen.
I’m not such a nice guy that I would lie to her or any of the other spirits I encounter. I don’t see why I have to pretend that everything is okay. I mean, what am I supposed to say? “Yes, you’re dead, but now you have your whole after-life ahead of you”? That’s the kind of bullshit that I see spirit mediums shovel into people's minds on TV. I’m not like those fakers. I may not know the truth, but I refuse to make up a cheap substitute.
Lately, I've overheard a lot of teachers calling me anti-social. Maybe it’s just another misconception about me, or maybe they’re right. It doesn’t matter. If they are, I don’t see why I should be blamed for that. I put up with too many dead people on a regular basis, so why should I give a shit about the problems of living people, too?
I don’t need social and emotional drama to make me aware of my own existence. I don’t need to hurt others, manipulate people, or pull stupid stunts just to feel alive. I know I’m alive because I encounter death everyday. I can tell the difference. I don’t need anything more to stress me out. That’s why I listen to music more often than I listen to people. It drowns out a lot of the static noise.
At least I’ve got Chad around to hang out with. One of the best things about him is that he doesn’t bother to speak unless he’s got something to say.
Too many people talk because they are scared of silence, but Chad isn’t scared of anything. A lot of people tend to talk shit because they’ve used all of their words up already, but he makes every word count for something. I can respect that.
So the whole point is that I barely had any sleep last night. When I met Chad at school this morning, Ooshima and his cronies came up and started talking shit. So I lost my strained patience, we kicked their asses and ended up in the counselor’s office.
The school therapist said that we’ve got emotional issues and crap like that. He wanted us to go home and write in a journal. We don’t have to worry about turning it in, so we can write whatever we want. He wanted us to figure out why we are so angry at the world. That way, he said, we could work on fixing all of our “social inadequacies.”
He’s got it all wrong, of course.
I’m not angry at the world. I’m only angry at myself.
And I will never be able to “fix” that anger and make it go away.
That's because Mom can't come back and make things like it should have been.
I can’t save the dead. No one can.
Therapeutic, my ass.
~*~*~
Yeah, I’m sorry for the messy structure and misspellings (some on purpose). I never said Ichigo was a poet. :P
Hmm… I wonder what Chad’s journal was like… -_-
Now I'm going to go run and hide because
razberryl will probably come hunt me down and offer me up as a live sacrifice to the Choco-Fanfic Muse. *whimper* o_0