Shadows of the Past by Kayla Stiles (buy e reader txt) 📕

A Useless Political Poem

12/10/10

Another long day at school, another day spent dying inside, heart left to wither and shatter alone. Keylana’s mindset is only dark and dreary as she sits, alone in her room, after a particularly hard day at school.

This world is purposely virulent, she thinks silently to herself. As she writes out her poem, she begins to scribble what most people would look at as nothing but a load of drivel. However, to her, it makes perfect sense.

This life, Keylana writes, is ruled by nothing more than a kleptocracy of monkeys.

These people who are, more than likely, all plenipotentiaries, just sit at their desks, allowing god-awful laws to be passed while vetoing the bills we need passed. People who enjoy prestidigitation, people who enjoy doing nothing but false magic tricks. Promising the nation something, and then taking back those promises when their own personal goals are accomplished.

Annoyed at herself, Keylana rips the paper in two, then crumples the halves and tosses them in the trash bin. She looks at her tear-stained face in the mirror, and thinks of her boyfriend. She cries even more. Then a thought occurs to her. If only she could sneak out, if only she could see Kevin. If she could only be with him for but a couple of hours, she’d be happy. She wouldn’t feel so alone, so misunderstood. She can already feel his warm arms wrapped about her waist, his soft lips pressed lightly to her own, to her neck, to her collarbone.

Sighing sadly, she thinks to herself, Only three more weeks, and then I’ll be able to see him again.

The Demon’s Notebook

10/29/10

You walk through the creaky double doors of the archaic mansion. A friend dared you to stay the night in the house, or she’d keep calling you the names she knows you hate: Bunny Boo, Innocent Angel, Cuddly Kitten. You vehemently slam the doors shut as the memory brings back the anger.

“Honey, I’m home!” you sarcastically annunciate to the empty house. “Heeeeeerrrrreeee’s Johnny.”

You sigh and walk into the living room. The second you enter the living room doorway, you’re greeted by a menagerie of animals in the form of mounted heads and bodies treated by a taxidermist. You cover your eyes and back out of the room. The second you turn the corner, you slide down the wall, onto the floor, and begin to cry in the earnest. The dead animals bring back scarring memories of the dead. As your tears dry up, the ache of an empty loneliness takes place in your heart.

A few hours later, the sun begins to set, so rise like a somnambulist from your spot on the floor. You begin to turn on the lights, but stop as something, some strange force, draws you towards the back room of the house. You slowly shuffle to the black door with the golden handle, unable to control your feet. You carefully open the door and find a wide assortment of things: books, clothes, boxes, papers, furniture. All from early 19th, late 18th century.

You’re drawn to an old trunk in the middle of the room. As you open its creaky lid, you find black leather-bound notebook contained inside. You pull it out and instantly feel an anode shoot throughout your body. Suddenly, a hand reaches up out of the pages of the notebook and pulls you inside the book. The lid closes behind you and you’re instantly lost in darkness.

Morning comes and your friends come to pick you up. Walking in, they don’t find you. Instead, all they find is a bloody trail seeping from under the black door of the back room. When they open the door, blood is pooled around the trunk in the middle of the room. The trunk is open and your desecrated corpse is visible. Your hand is reaching out of the trunk, as though in its last acts of reaching out for help. Your friends run out, screaming.

Die Dunkel Leben (The Dark Life)

10/22/10

Everyone laughing and cheering all around me.
Each of them flamboyant and annoying to see.
And here I sit, dark and silent, keeping to myself.
Just waiting for the clamor to slowly die itself.
My head aches. There’s no way to escape this place,
To get back to my beautiful darkness, so full of grace.
Oh, how the people solicit me to make them scream.
I just wish to wake up from this horribly bright bad dream.
As a clairvoyant often sees a fog inside her crystal ball,
I often see the damned, unknown to a world which watches them fall.
I try to live my own life arbitrarily,
But with everyone watching me with hilarity
In their eyes, they kick me down
They watch me fall, watch me drown.
Why can’t you all just finally see,
All I want is to be alone, to be me.
So just let me be, don’t toy with me.
Let me wallow in my own bloody sea.
Let me be myself, for once,
In this, Meine Dunkel Leben.

The Dream

3/20/12 

“Ah!” she screams as she sits bolt upright in bed. Her dark hair settles back on her shoulders as she sits in bed, panting heavily. She brings her hands to the sides of her face and shakes her head, as though in doing this she can shake off the dregs of her recurring nightmare.

It’s always the same, every night for the last 4 years. Every night since that dreadful night. But she’s not going to go into that. She shivers and shakes in terror at the mere though of even trying to look back on that night.

The nightmare always starts the same. She’s standing in a dark hallway. Only the light from the flashing lightning crashing through the windows and the moonlight shining down illuminate where Holly stands. The light fixtures over her head are visibly shattered. Glass crunches underfoot as Holly slowly creeps toward the door at the end of the hallway. Deep claw marks scar the surface of the wooden walls. Blood pools and spatters on the floor and wall. It’s fresh. Only about 10 minutes old. You can almost still hear the dying screams of the owner of the spilled blood. Still Holly continues making her way toward the big mahogany door with the brass handle. Her bare feet crunch over razor sharp shards of glass, a few times the glass even punctures the rough skin on her soles. But still she persists. Until she reaches the door. She reaches out her hand and feels the cool metal of the handle in her grasp. Her breath quickens, she’s so close to the mystery. She grips the door knob tighter, acutely aware of her sweaty palms and brow. She begins to turn the handle. The door flies open and she closes her eyes tight. She can feel hot breath on her neck. And that’s when she awakens with a frightful scream.

Suddenly, her alarm goes off. BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! It scares the crap out of her. She nearly jumps out her skin. Shaking off the remaining pieces of her nightmare, Holly shuts off her alarm on her phone and throws back her bed sheets, hopping out of bed.

She walks gingerly to her dresser and pulls out a pair of black and red skinny jeans and a black and turquoise Slipknot shirt. As she pulls the shirt over her head and pulls her long black hair out from underneath the T-shirt, she gazes at her reflection in the gold-winged mirror atop her dresser. She has dark circles and bags under her blazing green eyes. She hasn’t slept well since the incident. In fact, she’s only been getting a few hours of sleep at night. Every evening, she stays up until about 11 at night, finishing her homework and organizing her poems. When she finally gets to bed, she lies there for a couple more hours, afraid to fall asleep. Afraid of the coming nightmares. When she finally does fall asleep, it’s a restless sleep, a toss-and-turn type of sleep.

Tiredly, she drags her feet across the carpeted floor, carrying herself out into the hallway and down the stairs to the kitchen. Flicking on the light switch, she trudges across the oakwood floor and heads to the fridge. Pulling out a carton of milk, she grabs a small glass from the walnut-stained oak wood cabinets and pours herself a glass of cold milk.

Suddenly, Holly feels a hand on her shoulder. Letting out a small shriek, she jumps and spins around, her elbow knocking over her glass of milk. It’s just her mom.

“Um. Hi sweetie,” Ms. Newnan says softly, pulling her hand away from her daughter’s shoulder.

Blushing fiercely, her pale cheeks burning brightly, Holly murmurs, “Hi mom.” Kneeling to the floor with a towel in hand, she begins to mop up the spilled milk.

“Sorry,” Holly says softly. “You kind of scared me. That’s all.”

“You’re still having those nightmares, aren’t you?” Ms. Newnan asks.

“It’s only one. Always the same.” Holly’s eyes burn with the threat of oncoming tears as she continues to mop up the milk. It hurts her every time anyone tries to talk about the dreams with her.

Her mother sees the pained look on Holly’s face. Looking