Description
MARCELINA I always wondered what she had wrote about in those journals. Boys? She was way too bookwormish for that. Maybe a diary? Our lives were fairly uneventful, other than vacations and family visits. When I finally worked up the courage to touch the things in her room, the journals were the first thing that came to mind. I come here every day, staring at the faded colorful spines along the white bookshelf, remembering how I had helped her reorganize her endless novels over and over again, though slightly annoyed about how much she enjoyed reading. I miss her voice. She would talk about books a lot. She was obsessed with words on little pages, that she would beg our parents for trips to a library sale, or to let her buy a new book. The journals were like rainbows, just like she was. Each journal was a year of her life, mom got her one every birthday since she was 8 years old. Today, I walk over to them, reaching out to gently caress the tops of the notebooks with a finger, memories running through me. I remember promising her I would never read them, knowing she'd tell me anything, just like I would tell her. Now, it's been six months since she died. I want to know why. I stop my hand on the left side of the shelf, grabbing the first journal, a pink, soft leather bound notebook.
WARNING.
