Sincerely, Emily ✓

15 • Red Roses Of The Dead

F E B R U A R Y  1 0 ,  2 0 1 1

Hey. Sorry I haven't been writing for a while. 

It's harder for me to get to do the things I want since I have to always have somebody accompany me. You probably know how that feels like.

Do you also know how it feels like to use a feeding tube? It's so. . . disturbing. And a little bit gross. I hate it so much.

How would you feel if you felt food literally travelling from your nose all the way to your stomach? There's another option, which is letting the tube to be inserted in the stomach. But, like, I'd be crazy if I'd let myself get stabbed in the damn stomac —

Sudden pain started shooting down my fingertips. Oh, no. A twitch? I hadn't experience twitches in months. Ever since my legs went dead, I started getting them less and less.

But a few moments later nothing else happened. No twitch, no spasm, not even an over exaggerated gag reflex (yeah, I got those too. It was just too embarrassing to tell you.) All I felt was pure, raw pain in my fingers, and I wasn't even moving my hand anymore. My hand had gone rigid, like it sensed the pain, too.

What the hell —

"Your handwriting."

My shoulders jumped. Oliver and Tom had just came home from school but I hadn't even heard them come in through the front door.

Oliver frowned. "Where's the Three Stooges?"

"They went back to the house ten minutes ago."

"And left you here?" His frown deepened.

"At least they told me!" I retorted. "What about you, huh? You could've knocked first!"

He smirked. "Now where would the fun be in that?"

I ignored him. Turning my head, I switched my attention to the other Grant. "Tommy, what are you doing?"

Tom was putting his earphones back in and was getting out something else from his bag. "Going to plug my phone on the speakers. You don't mind, right?"

"Actually yeah, I kind of — "

The song played out of nowhere and the guitar chords started, from what I recognise as Besitos by, yet again, Pierce The Veil. I'd heard him play that song more times than I could remember. He really loved this band. I sighed. 

When Tom played one of his songs, there was no stopping him.

"What?" I exclaimed loudly when I saw Oliver's mouth forming a sentence. He leaned closer so his lips were just above my ear.

"Your handwriting," he repeated. "It's getting messy. I can't even read half the words in here."

I glared. "Hey!"

"I'm serious!" Now he was shouting, but I didn't blame him — I was probably shouting too due to the song drowning out our words. "What is that? Disclude something?"

"DISTURBING!" I screamed. "Tha wayn'tven close!"

"Well, it just proves that your writing is — wait, what did you say?"

"AND UNTIL, THAT, DAY. . . I'LL STEAL YOU FLOWERS FROM THE CE-ME-TE-RYYY!"

Tom's voice was loud enough to make the roof go crashing down, and sadly, his voice was far from an angel's.