Thirteen.

            I remember exactly what the sky looked like when I arrived at Butler hospital.  I remember exactly how the air smelt, and I remember exactly how I felt.  I remember the nauseous feeling and the churning in my stomach.  I remember how I felt that I shouldn't be here, that something was off about this place.  I, however, had no choice in whether I was going to stay or go.

            I remember exactly how the restraints felt against my skin.  I remember the burning sensation it caused when I fought so desperately to break free of them.  I remember how terrified I was of the two men who gripped my arms too tight as they dragged me through the large building's front doors and up to the nurses' desk.

"We have a live one for you," the one on the right spoke out with a smirk upon his perfectly chiseled face as he playfully leaned up against the desk to flirt with the pretty nurse who sat behind it.

"A live one, eh?"  She replied with a pretty smile.  She seemed unfazed by the man's shameless flirting.  Her eyes shifted their focus from the godlike man in front of her to me, the scrawny little girl from the island that no one has ever heard of.  "How old are you, sweetie?"  She asked, her smile seemingly stretching even further across her face.

            I however did not hear her question.  My focus had been on something, on the mirror on the wall behind the pretty girl.  Within I stared back at my own reflection, studying every feature, and watching every movement of every muscle in my face.  I then diverted my gaze to study the men that had brought me here, to this hospital; to this asylum.  The faces that looked back at me in the mirror were not of those to my left and my right.  Though I knew very well that the man on my right was devoting all of his attention to the pretty girl in front of me his reflection was devoting all of its attention to me.  What I saw in that mirror chilled me to the bone.  It was the eyes, for there were none.  Only darkened eye sockets where the eyes should have been were staring back at me from the mirror.  I kept trying to assure myself that I was seeing things.  That it was the stress of loosing my parents making me see things that weren't there.  I kept wishing that it was just the stress.  It was only when my eyes met a pair of cold, dark, familiar black eyes that I tore my gaze from the mirror and back to the pretty woman behind the desk.

Nine.

Some of you may or may not know this about me, but I write.  I write a lot.  For the past two years I've participated in a program called NaNoWriMO and for the past two years I've failed miserably.  I always start off strong and way ahead and then that little thing called life catches up with me and I forget about my novel.  This past year I did end up writing more than I did the year before, so I considered that a win. Hopefully this year  I'll write more than I did last year and maybe in a few years I'll reach the 50,000 word goal.

Anyway I decided to post the first chapters of the novels I started over at my Fiction Press.  Last year's story was entitled Polished Glass and the previous year's was called Sometimes Bad Dreams Can Be Really Good For You.  Both are horror/suspense stories and I'm really happy with the one I attempted this past November. I'm going to post up the rest of what I have written for those two stories up there when I have time, but for now I though it might interest you.

I've always wanted to write a book, maybe I'll finish one before I die.  Oh! & Their cover art too.