Page 81 of Daisy Darker


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“What are you talking about?”

“She thought you should write your own story. Think about it: using your words is the only thing you can still do. Death isn’t like the movies, at least not for you. I’ve never seen you walk through walls or even a door unless someone has opened it first. But you can move Scrabble letters, and books, and type on keyboards.”

Trixie walks out into the hall.

“Wait!” I say. “Don’t leave me here alone with… them!”

“I’ll be back soon, I promise,” she says, attaching Poppins’s lead to her collar. “The pen Nana’s agent gave you the night that you died is still in your dress pocket,” Trixie adds.

She’s right. I take out the special silver pen with four colors, and find Nana’s agent’s business card too. I stare at his name and the address of his office in London.

“Perhaps writing your own storyisthe only way you get to escape this life? Maybe telling the truth about what happened is your unfinished business? Nana’s agent told you he’d read a story about the real Daisy Darker if you wrote it, do you remember? I won’t be long, Aunty Daisy. Come on, Poppins!”

I retreat inside the darkroom of my mind, trying to develop a picture of a future that would be more appealing, but all I see is black. I rush to catch up with Trixie, but she closes the front door behind her and I can’t seem to open it. She’s right; I can’t walk through walls. I bang on the door, but it doesn’t make a sound. Ipeer out of the tiny round window in the hallway; it’s like a porthole on a boat, and I do feel as though I am trapped on a sinking ship. My view of Trixie and Poppins gets smaller and smaller as they walk across the causeway, leaving me behind. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to love my niece the way that I used to. Sometimes we love monsters without knowing that’s what they are.

I love this house too. I never wanted to leave it. Until now.

The eighty clocks surrounding me in the hallway start to strike seven and the noise is deafening. I stare at the punch clock and see the faded card with my name on it. The last date stamped on it says 1988. I run up the stairs to my bedroom and find Conor’s laptop on the desk where he left it. The cursor is flashing on the screen, and the word that I wrote last night is still there:

Boo!

The letters disappear one by one, and are replaced with something new:

DAISY DARKER

My fingers tremble when I have finished typing what I hope might be the title of my story. I feel for the business card in my pocket, take it out, and stare at the agent’s name again.

I wonder if I could really write a book.

I wonder if I could really tell the truth.

There is so much we don’t know we don’t know.

The tide is out now and the sun is just starting to rise above Seaglass, casting the sky in streaks of pink and purple. I’ve always thought that dawn is the most beautiful time—shining a light on the clean slate of a new day. A chance to start again. The birds are swooping and singing above the waves in Blacksand Bay, and as I look out toward the ocean, I spot a pod of dolphins in the distance. The sound of the sea is serenading what feels like my final scene.

Iwantto be free.

I wonder if anyone will ever read the story I want to write?

The eighty clocks downstairs are quiet again, and I enjoy the silence as I type the first few words on the blank page:I was born with a broken heart.I spent my whole life hiding inside stories when the real world got too loud. I don’t know if anyone will ever read mine. There are some stories only time will tell.

Source: www.allfreenovel.com
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