The Clink
It all started with a clink,
It was my 21st birthday and shot glasses clinked,
But before then I have always heard a clink,
I was 3 years old and my dad came stumbling in the door,
I had no idea what my parents were fighting for,
I heard my parents divorce was on the brink,
But I was only a toddler what was I suppose to think,
I could never understand,
But my mom and dad held my hand,
My dad came home from having a drink,
But after he passed out on the floor I heard the table clink,
I walked in the dining room door,
But found that he was passed out on the floor,
I looked at the table and saw a can,
And I put the drink in my hand,
I took a sip and it was gross,
It was only then I realized that I missed my dad the most,
I thought it was sprite,
But something just didn't taste right,
It was beer,
But I was to young to know what was clear,
It was all a clink... it was all a clink,
When I found out that you died,
All I could do is cry,
It wasn't out of anger or that things got bad.
It was that I would no longer have my dad.
Never thought I could be so sad.
Or change so much,
But it was with you that I am now out of touch.
I'm now 22 years old and all I hear is a clink,
I clean my cup in the sink that reminds me of my thoughts from last night,
But something didn't feel right,
You weren't there fixing my hair for school,
You weren't there telling me the ultimate life rule.
You died and something in me went with it,
I wish that something could fit,
But I can no longer look forward to seeing you on the street,
Or randomly see you in the local walmart where we would meet,
What could have been so bad?
That you could not reach out to anyone my lovely Dad,
What took over all of your thoughts and pain,
What drove you away from all the things that made you sane.
There's so much I want to tell you and all of the things to know that you would think,
But all I need is to start with the clink.
The clink, the clink again, we need a clink to know where your thoughts began,
What hurt you so bad, I need to know dad,
Those beautiful hazel eyes and their silent cries,
I miss laying with you and how much you showed your love in our hellos and goodbyes.
by reddit user iia/ tumblr user unsettlingstories
The diary was from a while ago; 21 years, according to the dates. It was sealed really well in plastic wrap and stuffed in a watertight bag. If I hadn’t hit the thing with my shovel when digging a hole to take a dump, I never would’ve found it. I wish that would’ve been the case because I can’t stop thinking about the stuff I read. I’m only going to share the fucked up parts, but all I’m leaving out is the lady talking about how she and her husband were spending the month camping and having a good time. There, I just saved you 5 pages. Here’s where it got weird:
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There's this new face I see in mirror
It has no more tiers or fears in the eyes
No more frown that made me drown
There's a new face in town
Who's could it be
If I looked in the mirror to see
There is a change in me
There is now sun in my eyes that shine
I'm doing just fine
This is a new sign
A new start
There is no more broken heart
It is filled
All my worries have been killed
by sixpenceee user EZmisery, tumblr, facebook
As kids, my sister Cassie and I didn’t know we were different. How could we? We spent all of our time in the house. Our parents never let us play outside. They said this was for our own protection. I remember clearly our father outlining all of the horrors of the world beyond our front door. “Vicious animals, dangerous men, deathly illnesses.” Everyday brought a new reason why we couldn’t venture outside the walls of the house. I realized the truth much later; they were embarrassed of us. Cassie and I were close, literally and metaphorically. We spent every moment together. I’ve read that twins are often this way, but we were more than that. We woke up at the same time, closed our eyes for bed at the same time. We would often dream the exact same dream. We read books together (she’d read the left page, I’d read the right). Our parents said we were unnaturally close. This didn’t make sense to us at the time.
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Her name was Emma.
That’s what everyone called her, anyways. Sometimes they would call her Em, sometimes someone would slip up and call her Emily. She was a part of our group of girlfriends growing up in a large town, not quite big enough to be a city but big enough that there was still privacy between neighbors.
We called ourselves the “Unbreakable Six,” because there was me, Summer, Mel, Nina, and Jules.
And there was Emma.
Emma started off as a practical joke by the other girls in the fourth grade. It was probably Jules that started it. She was always playing pranks of people. In high school, she even got suspended once for going too far, and had to babysit for hours to buy that girl a new cellphone. Or maybe it was Summer, who always seemed too busy with music and band to think of such an elaborate prank. Or maybe it was Mel and Nina, who were best friends and could have lived without us, always conspiring together like they were twin sisters.
Either way, I bought my lunch, cold cut sandwich and carrot sticks and a pint of orange juice (I couldn’t stand milk; it would account for how short I ended up being) and walked over to our lunch table. Jules looked excited, waving me over to them.
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"Never Woke Up" by Katy Towell
Esteban
by reddit user alackofcoasters
As a teacher, I get to see and hear a lot of horror stories, maybe not the kind that you are used to. Kids being abused by teachers or parents, students who get hooked on hard drugs and lose scholarships, even teenagers getting raped in the classroom. Bad things happen to good kids. It breaks my heart. All in all, it’s all pretty horrific, some of the things they warn you about in school when you’re getting your teaching credential.
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By creepypasta user egodram
I live in the middle of nowhere, far away from the rest of my friends. I have to wake up very early in the morning to catch my bus and I usually eat my breakfast as it’s bringing me to school. I don’t have any brothers or sisters; There’s just me, the Ziggy the cat, and my Dad.
And then there’s Martha, the chronically pissed-off woman who insists that I call her my Mother. But lately I don’t feel so inclined to do so.
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