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Description
Thoughts – musings of the mind and inklings of the heart- flow from my mind to my fingertips and see them pop up as black text on my computer screen.

My nimble fingers dance over the battered keys of my laptop. They puncture the silence of my dark room with a sharp click each time they take another step in their quick, calculated routine. I take delight in the music: the intermittent albeit persistent beat of tick-tick-tick, the bewitching staccato of ideas taking life in the form of words.

Magic and miracles are things that vanish into thin air when one sees too much of it, so I keep my dark eyes glued to the bright, wide screen of my Macintosh computer. I catch glimpses of my reflection beyond the blocks of text, staring back at me with white rectangles of light glaring off its dark eyes. I catch glimpses of its hazy digits moving in time with the quick waltz of my own.

I type so fast, so accurately, so mechanically that I feel as if I am merely a machine following commands inputted by its creator. I just shrug my shoulders in that way thirteen year olds do when they don't want to think about something. They're my thoughts after all. Why should I be worried?

My hands fall to my sides, and I take some time to skim through my new literary work with fatigued yet enthusiastic eyes. I feel the ends of my thin lips turn upwards in a small, delighted grin.

I seize my mouse and attack the "Submit" button with a loud, satisfying click.

***

I am Alita Velez, and though it is considered juvenile, I love to play pretend.

Today, I am assuming the role of the stereotypical emo.

I press the scalpel against my wrist – firmly, but not enough to pierce the skin. I spend a moment to take a deep gulp of air before I slash down my forearms with startling precision.

I throw my head back in pain. I open my lips to curse, but all that comes out is a high-pitched screech that stings my ears. My jaws clench, and salty tears sting the edges of my eyes.

Gasping for breath, I press my back against the cracked, ash grey concrete wall in the farthest corner of this time-forgotten room. From the corners of my eyes, I see the outline of Mama and Papa. I find it in myself to smile. They are here for me, dressed up in their nice, clean, long white lab coats for the occasion. They seem to be writing down notes on their clipboards again today. The notes would be a good reference for a character I am writing about in my new story.

I position my arm on my lap. I bend my head down to take a better look. Straight, waist-long, midnight black hair cascade over my drooped shoulders and frame the sides of my paling face. My neck hurts from the awkward angle my head is in.

I watch with morbid fascination the blood – my life fluid – gush out of the incision, drip down my arm, and stain my legs and the floor with deep crimson. My upper lip curls, and I hear my stomach churn. I feel the bile creep up my throat. But I cannot look away. Is this how emos really feel?

Everything looks blurry now. I see spots before my eyes. My vision frays at the edges. Numbness creeps over me.

My parents sprint to my side and stand over me. They do not scold me for what I have done nor do they rush me to the nearest hospital or make any attempt to fix the wound. They do not ruin the fun. I love them for that.

Instead, they write more frantically. I hope their clipboards can handle their excitement.
I let the darkness take over me. It is what I do whenever I finish one of my little games.

After what seems to be merely moments, I wake up to the new morning: refreshed, blissful, and free of scars.

I never worry. No matter how real the pain felt and how red the blood seemed, I know this was all just pretend.

***

ElectroAngel says:

YOU UPDATE SO FAST! MOREMOREMOREMORE. I LOVE YOUR STORIES.  They're so deliciously creepy~! <3 Great work as always!

HTMLwolf says:

So good…so awesome…more emo cutting scenes pls. how do u imagine think of these things?

HydroOblivious says:

HOLY SH--!!!! This! THIISSSSSS!!! How do you write so well? D: I am so jealous. *sobs in emo corner and slashes wrists with your character* No srsly, how do you write so frikin' well?! GOSH.

Writer Awakened says:

Thank you very much for the kind comments. I am very flattered.  Thank you for the compliment, HydroOblivious.  Actually, I believe that anyone can write. It just takes interest and practice. Literature is literally my entire life.

FictionLicker says:

Have to agree with the comments above, Writer. You have some talent there. The eerie undertones keep me reading and wanting more. Keep it up! Question though: what do you mean by "literature is literally my entire life"?  Don't you go to school and hang out with friends? D:

Writer Awakened says:

I meant what I meant. Literature is literally my life. I spend all my time reading books, looking for books, or writing my own works of literature. No joke.

I don't go out to study. My parents teach me. They say it's called "home schooling." I don't have any friends. Well, friends that I see in person anyway. I have many friends on the Internet.

To tell the truth, I never stepped out of my home. Not even once. My parents don't let me. The only people I ever had any actual contact with are my parents and my uncle (or rather, Tio) Marcello, who visits us all the time. I don't have siblings.

ChocolateNox says:
wow, writer. that sounds…depressing. DDDD: idk i'd go crazy if my parents did that to me. i just want to go to your house right now and give you a big hug! DDD

Writer Awakened says:

Awww…that's so sweet of you, ChocolateNox! >w< Nah. My parents aren't that bad. They give me anything I want as long as I stay at home and be a good girl – good food, clean clothes, stimulating books. Especially books! I ask for so many books that there wouldn't be enough space in our house to keep them in if my parents buy all the books I ask for. They bought me a computer and gave me Internet access, so I could read all the books I want! Now, I not only have access to published books, but also to works by "amateur" writers online. It is so interesting to read about different people's daily lives! So different from mine!

My parents are okay with me reading and writing, but I'm not sure if they are okay with me publishing my works online…so my parents don't exactly know that I run my own writing blog. Shhh…please don't tell them. I enjoy posting my works here.

Also, concerning my own feelings about not leaving my house even once, I am completely fine with it. The only place I want to visit is my house's basement. My parents never let me in there.
Honestly, I don't think I need to actually go anywhere. In my opinion, the most interesting place in the world is the mind. Learning parts of the human psyche and condition that few dare to explore in the form of literature. It's truly breathtaking.

And now I will answer the question that is so often addressed to me. How do I think of such stories and scenes? Let's just say that I have a huge imagination, and I'm not afraid to use it.

***

I am Alita Velez, and I love to play pretend.

Today, I am a cancer patient on the verge of death.

I lie on a pure white hospital bed, my lower body hidden by an equally white cotton hospital blanket. I am too weak to even sit up, so all I can do is crane my neck a bit to the side. I gaze at the intravenous bags which hang from the tall metal stand. I take note of the loops the intravenous line forms.

I yawn, for I am tired. Tired of having to battle an enemy whose victory was expected from the very start. My back is sore from lying down. I feel as if jackhammers are drilling holes on both of my temples. My lips are cracked and practically beg for water. Every fiber of my being aches.

I imagine myself as an old, tattered, well-loved rag doll whose stitches are just about to come loose and let all the stuffing out. What a charming line. I need to remember that one.

Just as I begin pondering and trying to make up more lines that I can use in my works, I hear a solid knock on the wooden door, the kind that one gives out of courtesy. I hear the doorknob click and the door creak ever so slightly as it opened. Papa steps into the room first and keeps the door open for Mama and-oh! Who is this behind them? It is none other than Tio Marcello! He came to play as well today!

He walks towards the bed with a bounce in his step with what seems to be a large suitcase, leaving Mama and Papa standing by the door. He bends his back to take a better look at me.

How's my favorite niece? Feeling better today?, he inquires as he ruffles my stringy, black tresses.

I give a little cough before I reply: Tio, I'm your only niece. I'm not exactly fine. Everything still hurts, but – yes – I think I do feel a little better because you decided to visit me right before I vanish from this earth.

He chuckles. Hold on a second there! Think I got something that can help you!

He opens up his suitcase, pulls something out, and presents to me with all the pride in the world some sort of flashing device that reminds me of a taser.

I blink once, twice. Ummm…Tio…what exactly….are you holding?, I say in between coughs.

Ah!, he exclaims with a dignified smirk. Don't you know, Alita? The cure to cancer, of course! What else can this be?

I examine it. Ummm…it doesn't…look like much.

He looks at me with such a scandalized expression that I couldn't help but titter at his inhumanely wide orbs and gaping mouth. What?! You don't believe me? This is the cure to cancer! Tsk tsk tsk. You need to think outside the box! Isn't that what good pretenders are supposed to do? Yes! My device works, but it only works on little cancer patients that have an open mind, a strong will, and a lot of courage! Do you have those things, Alita?

I grin so widely that my lips crack and nod as much as I can. Ah, Tio Marcello! Things are always more interesting when you are around!

He leaps to his feet and stands up straight. Okay then, Little Miss Courageous! I'm going to start my device now. Are you ready?

Mama and Papa stride to the foot of my bed, holding up their clipboards, their pens poised.

I close my eyes in anticipation. Here I am, the littlest cancer patient, about to be cured by an amazing invention—

ZAP!

The last thing I feel before I pass out is a strong electrical current that courses through my body and overrides my senses.

After what seems to be a few moments, I wake up to a new morning once again: refreshed, blissful, alone on my usual pink bed, and free of physical pains and emotional aches.

I never fret. No matter how much despair the cancer brought me and how horribly my soul stung from the white electricity, I know that it was all pretend.

***

RinRanRu says:

Come on, Writer! Just tell us your secret! ^o^ You must have SOME kind of technique!

Writer Awakened says:

Like I said earlier, it's just practice and imagination. Pretending helps immensely.

FictionLicker says:

What do you mean by "pretending"?

Writer Awakened says:

Putting yourself in the situations of your characters, of course! Pretend to be them for a while. Yes, it sounds a little difficult, but you end up with more-or-less accurate results with enough practice. I do with my parents all the time.

ChocolateNox says:

with your…parents…?

Writer Awakened says:

Yes. I always play pretend with my parents. They suggest to me what kind of character I should create. They provide me with the necessary setting and equipment to make everything seem more legitimate. For example, they put me in a straight jacket and locked me inside a padded room when I pretended to be a violent patient diagnosed with Multiple Personality Disorder. I would get into character, and they would not interfere no matter what happened. Everything was merely in my head after all – the blood, the pain, the turbulent emotions, the disease. None of it could have been real.

I remember the time I bashed my head against the floor. I thought I saw pools of my own blood on the floor, but they couldn't have been real. I woke up the next morning completely fine. Honest.

My parents write down notes. My uncle usually "works in his lab to produce cures for me". He's probably into the game as well. He visits and brings cures every time I play pretend.

He also brings me a lot of colorful candy. I don't know what they do exactly, since I always fall into a deep sleep whenever I eat them. I don't like the taste, but my parents say that it's impolite to decline gifts.

FictionLicker says:

You seem to do this a lot. Why don't you try something new? It'll be refreshing.

Writer Awakened says:

Hmmm….maybe I will.

***

I am Alita Velez, and as much as I love to play pretend, I want to go exploring today.

Today, I am visiting the basement.

Both my parents are at a science convention, so I am sure that they will be out for most of the day. I lock the doors and close the blinds before I stride to the door leading to the basement. What could be down there? Maybe some antiques or photo albums? I read that most people like to keep their little trinkets in their basements.

I gingerly turn the doorknob and push the door slightly ajar, just enough to take a good peek. I am greeted by blinding white fluorescent light.

My jaw drops at the sight. Before I know it, I run down the stairs and to the middle of the room, to Tio Marcello's side, throwing away all sense of caution.

He might be asking why I am in the basement right now, and if he is, I don't hear him. I turn myself slowly in place, relishing in my new discovery. I am not an only child. I have a twin. Not just a twin, but hundreds of twins. Hundreds of sleeping Alitas inside glass pods. All with the same waist-long, midnight black hair, the same thick eyelashes, the same everything!

I look up at Tio Marcello. He looks back at me with an unreadable expression. He looks menacing under the fluorescent light, and I become apprehensive.

You should have never come down here, Alita, he says with a sharp edge in his voice, and I feel I know what is going to happen next.

I try to sprint back upstairs, but he grabs me by my wrist. He takes something out of the pocket of his white lab coat with his free hand. I take one look at it and recognize it as the taser he used to get rid of my imaginary cancer.

But the taser isn't imaginary, and I fall to the floor in a crumpled heap.

This time, I know that this is real. The darkness does not slowly creep up on me. It engulfs me completely.

I do not think I will be waking up tomorrow.

***

Scientific Log #xxxxxx

Genetic experiment ALITA has been terminated.

Brought destruction upon itself. Had too much free will.

We can no longer keep our experimentation on ALITA secret now that the memory of the contents of the basement laboratory has been imbedded into her mind. We can no longer transfer her memories from one body to another without her knowledge.

Nothing was pretend.

:D (Big Grin) — Description
Thoughts – musings of the mind and inklings of the heart- flow from my mind to my fingertips and see them pop up as black text on my computer screen.

My nimble fingers dance over the battered keys of my laptop. They puncture the silence of my dark room with a sharp click each time they take another step in their quick, calculated routine. I take delight in the music: the intermittent albeit persistent beat of tick-tick-tick, the bewitching staccato of ideas taking life in the form of words.

Magic and miracles are things that vanish into thin air when one sees too much of it, so I keep my dark eyes glued to the bright, wide screen of my Macintosh computer. I catch glimpses of my reflection beyond the blocks of text, staring back at me with white rectangles of light glaring off its dark eyes. I catch glimpses of its hazy digits moving in time with the quick waltz of my own.

I type so fast, so accurately, so mechanically that I feel as if I am merely a machine following commands inputted by its creator. I just shrug my shoulders in that way thirteen year olds do when they don't want to think about something. They're my thoughts after all. Why should I be worried?

My hands fall to my sides, and I take some time to skim through my new literary work with fatigued yet enthusiastic eyes. I feel the ends of my thin lips turn upwards in a small, delighted grin.

I seize my mouse and attack the "Submit" button with a loud, satisfying click.

***

I am Alita Velez, and though it is considered juvenile, I love to play pretend.

Today, I am assuming the role of the stereotypical emo.

I press the scalpel against my wrist – firmly, but not enough to pierce the skin. I spend a moment to take a deep gulp of air before I slash down my forearms with startling precision.

I throw my head back in pain. I open my lips to curse, but all that comes out is a high-pitched screech that stings my ears. My jaws clench, and salty tears sting the edges of my eyes.

Gasping for breath, I press my back against the cracked, ash grey concrete wall in the farthest corner of this time-forgotten room. From the corners of my eyes, I see the outline of Mama and Papa. I find it in myself to smile. They are here for me, dressed up in their nice, clean, long white lab coats for the occasion. They seem to be writing down notes on their clipboards again today. The notes would be a good reference for a character I am writing about in my new story.

I position my arm on my lap. I bend my head down to take a better look. Straight, waist-long, midnight black hair cascade over my drooped shoulders and frame the sides of my paling face. My neck hurts from the awkward angle my head is in.

I watch with morbid fascination the blood – my life fluid – gush out of the incision, drip down my arm, and stain my legs and the floor with deep crimson. My upper lip curls, and I hear my stomach churn. I feel the bile creep up my throat. But I cannot look away. Is this how emos really feel?

Everything looks blurry now. I see spots before my eyes. My vision frays at the edges. Numbness creeps over me.

My parents sprint to my side and stand over me. They do not scold me for what I have done nor do they rush me to the nearest hospital or make any attempt to fix the wound. They do not ruin the fun. I love them for that.

Instead, they write more frantically. I hope their clipboards can handle their excitement.
I let the darkness take over me. It is what I do whenever I finish one of my little games.

After what seems to be merely moments, I wake up to the new morning: refreshed, blissful, and free of scars.

I never worry. No matter how real the pain felt and how red the blood seemed, I know this was all just pretend.

***

ElectroAngel says:

YOU UPDATE SO FAST! MOREMOREMOREMORE. I LOVE YOUR STORIES.  They're so deliciously creepy~! <3 Great work as always!

HTMLwolf says:

So good…so awesome…more emo cutting scenes pls. how do u imagine think of these things?

HydroOblivious says:

HOLY SH--!!!! This! THIISSSSSS!!! How do you write so well? D: I am so jealous. *sobs in emo corner and slashes wrists with your character* No srsly, how do you write so frikin' well?! GOSH.

Writer Awakened says:

Thank you very much for the kind comments. I am very flattered.  Thank you for the compliment, HydroOblivious.  Actually, I believe that anyone can write. It just takes interest and practice. Literature is literally my entire life.

FictionLicker says:

Have to agree with the comments above, Writer. You have some talent there. The eerie undertones keep me reading and wanting more. Keep it up! Question though: what do you mean by "literature is literally my entire life"?  Don't you go to school and hang out with friends? D:

Writer Awakened says:

I meant what I meant. Literature is literally my life. I spend all my time reading books, looking for books, or writing my own works of literature. No joke.

I don't go out to study. My parents teach me. They say it's called "home schooling." I don't have any friends. Well, friends that I see in person anyway. I have many friends on the Internet.

To tell the truth, I never stepped out of my home. Not even once. My parents don't let me. The only people I ever had any actual contact with are my parents and my uncle (or rather, Tio) Marcello, who visits us all the time. I don't have siblings.

ChocolateNox says:
wow, writer. that sounds…depressing. DDDD: idk i'd go crazy if my parents did that to me. i just want to go to your house right now and give you a big hug! DDD

Writer Awakened says:

Awww…that's so sweet of you, ChocolateNox! >w< Nah. My parents aren't that bad. They give me anything I want as long as I stay at home and be a good girl – good food, clean clothes, stimulating books. Especially books! I ask for so many books that there wouldn't be enough space in our house to keep them in if my parents buy all the books I ask for. They bought me a computer and gave me Internet access, so I could read all the books I want! Now, I not only have access to published books, but also to works by "amateur" writers online. It is so interesting to read about different people's daily lives! So different from mine!

My parents are okay with me reading and writing, but I'm not sure if they are okay with me publishing my works online…so my parents don't exactly know that I run my own writing blog. Shhh…please don't tell them. I enjoy posting my works here.

Also, concerning my own feelings about not leaving my house even once, I am completely fine with it. The only place I want to visit is my house's basement. My parents never let me in there.
Honestly, I don't think I need to actually go anywhere. In my opinion, the most interesting place in the world is the mind. Learning parts of the human psyche and condition that few dare to explore in the form of literature. It's truly breathtaking.

And now I will answer the question that is so often addressed to me. How do I think of such stories and scenes? Let's just say that I have a huge imagination, and I'm not afraid to use it.

***

I am Alita Velez, and I love to play pretend.

Today, I am a cancer patient on the verge of death.

I lie on a pure white hospital bed, my lower body hidden by an equally white cotton hospital blanket. I am too weak to even sit up, so all I can do is crane my neck a bit to the side. I gaze at the intravenous bags which hang from the tall metal stand. I take note of the loops the intravenous line forms.

I yawn, for I am tired. Tired of having to battle an enemy whose victory was expected from the very start. My back is sore from lying down. I feel as if jackhammers are drilling holes on both of my temples. My lips are cracked and practically beg for water. Every fiber of my being aches.

I imagine myself as an old, tattered, well-loved rag doll whose stitches are just about to come loose and let all the stuffing out. What a charming line. I need to remember that one.

Just as I begin pondering and trying to make up more lines that I can use in my works, I hear a solid knock on the wooden door, the kind that one gives out of courtesy. I hear the doorknob click and the door creak ever so slightly as it opened. Papa steps into the room first and keeps the door open for Mama and-oh! Who is this behind them? It is none other than Tio Marcello! He came to play as well today!

He walks towards the bed with a bounce in his step with what seems to be a large suitcase, leaving Mama and Papa standing by the door. He bends his back to take a better look at me.

How's my favorite niece? Feeling better today?, he inquires as he ruffles my stringy, black tresses.

I give a little cough before I reply: Tio, I'm your only niece. I'm not exactly fine. Everything still hurts, but – yes – I think I do feel a little better because you decided to visit me right before I vanish from this earth.

He chuckles. Hold on a second there! Think I got something that can help you!

He opens up his suitcase, pulls something out, and presents to me with all the pride in the world some sort of flashing device that reminds me of a taser.

I blink once, twice. Ummm…Tio…what exactly….are you holding?, I say in between coughs.

Ah!, he exclaims with a dignified smirk. Don't you know, Alita? The cure to cancer, of course! What else can this be?

I examine it. Ummm…it doesn't…look like much.

He looks at me with such a scandalized expression that I couldn't help but titter at his inhumanely wide orbs and gaping mouth. What?! You don't believe me? This is the cure to cancer! Tsk tsk tsk. You need to think outside the box! Isn't that what good pretenders are supposed to do? Yes! My device works, but it only works on little cancer patients that have an open mind, a strong will, and a lot of courage! Do you have those things, Alita?

I grin so widely that my lips crack and nod as much as I can. Ah, Tio Marcello! Things are always more interesting when you are around!

He leaps to his feet and stands up straight. Okay then, Little Miss Courageous! I'm going to start my device now. Are you ready?

Mama and Papa stride to the foot of my bed, holding up their clipboards, their pens poised.

I close my eyes in anticipation. Here I am, the littlest cancer patient, about to be cured by an amazing invention—

ZAP!

The last thing I feel before I pass out is a strong electrical current that courses through my body and overrides my senses.

After what seems to be a few moments, I wake up to a new morning once again: refreshed, blissful, alone on my usual pink bed, and free of physical pains and emotional aches.

I never fret. No matter how much despair the cancer brought me and how horribly my soul stung from the white electricity, I know that it was all pretend.

***

RinRanRu says:

Come on, Writer! Just tell us your secret! ^o^ You must have SOME kind of technique!

Writer Awakened says:

Like I said earlier, it's just practice and imagination. Pretending helps immensely.

FictionLicker says:

What do you mean by "pretending"?

Writer Awakened says:

Putting yourself in the situations of your characters, of course! Pretend to be them for a while. Yes, it sounds a little difficult, but you end up with more-or-less accurate results with enough practice. I do with my parents all the time.

ChocolateNox says:

with your…parents…?

Writer Awakened says:

Yes. I always play pretend with my parents. They suggest to me what kind of character I should create. They provide me with the necessary setting and equipment to make everything seem more legitimate. For example, they put me in a straight jacket and locked me inside a padded room when I pretended to be a violent patient diagnosed with Multiple Personality Disorder. I would get into character, and they would not interfere no matter what happened. Everything was merely in my head after all – the blood, the pain, the turbulent emotions, the disease. None of it could have been real.

I remember the time I bashed my head against the floor. I thought I saw pools of my own blood on the floor, but they couldn't have been real. I woke up the next morning completely fine. Honest.

My parents write down notes. My uncle usually "works in his lab to produce cures for me". He's probably into the game as well. He visits and brings cures every time I play pretend.

He also brings me a lot of colorful candy. I don't know what they do exactly, since I always fall into a deep sleep whenever I eat them. I don't like the taste, but my parents say that it's impolite to decline gifts.

FictionLicker says:

You seem to do this a lot. Why don't you try something new? It'll be refreshing.

Writer Awakened says:

Hmmm….maybe I will.

***

I am Alita Velez, and as much as I love to play pretend, I want to go exploring today.

Today, I am visiting the basement.

Both my parents are at a science convention, so I am sure that they will be out for most of the day. I lock the doors and close the blinds before I stride to the door leading to the basement. What could be down there? Maybe some antiques or photo albums? I read that most people like to keep their little trinkets in their basements.

I gingerly turn the doorknob and push the door slightly ajar, just enough to take a good peek. I am greeted by blinding white fluorescent light.

My jaw drops at the sight. Before I know it, I run down the stairs and to the middle of the room, to Tio Marcello's side, throwing away all sense of caution.

He might be asking why I am in the basement right now, and if he is, I don't hear him. I turn myself slowly in place, relishing in my new discovery. I am not an only child. I have a twin. Not just a twin, but hundreds of twins. Hundreds of sleeping Alitas inside glass pods. All with the same waist-long, midnight black hair, the same thick eyelashes, the same everything!

I look up at Tio Marcello. He looks back at me with an unreadable expression. He looks menacing under the fluorescent light, and I become apprehensive.

You should have never come down here, Alita, he says with a sharp edge in his voice, and I feel I know what is going to happen next.

I try to sprint back upstairs, but he grabs me by my wrist. He takes something out of the pocket of his white lab coat with his free hand. I take one look at it and recognize it as the taser he used to get rid of my imaginary cancer.

But the taser isn't imaginary, and I fall to the floor in a crumpled heap.

This time, I know that this is real. The darkness does not slowly creep up on me. It engulfs me completely.

I do not think I will be waking up tomorrow.

***

Scientific Log #xxxxxx

Genetic experiment ALITA has been terminated.

Brought destruction upon itself. Had too much free will.

We can no longer keep our experimentation on ALITA secret now that the memory of the contents of the basement laboratory has been imbedded into her mind. We can no longer transfer her memories from one body to another without her knowledge.

Nothing was pretend.