Dear Journal,
I’m writing to you from my roof. It has a great view, but the trees (and that junker car from next door) won’t allow a 360 degree view of the sky. Sorry, I guess I should explain that I’m sitting on the roof, but my feet are on the ground. No, that’s not one of those cute phrases from a love song, but rather the sad truth.
You see, I’ve somehow lived through a Cat 5 hurricane. My parents’ house is in pieces. My car now looks as bad as it used to run. My parents are dead. Don’t ask me how – I couldn’t look.
At least the sky is beautiful. Purples and greens that you’d never see otherwise. The air is crystal clear, as if God scrubbed the sky clean of hundreds or years of waste, filth, and hate.
The only sound I can hear is the rush of my own blood, as the adrenaline works its way out of my system. The thunder is muted by the banks of clouds surrounding my neighborhood.
But I can hear the train coming, the siren of my impending doom.
Goodbye,
Jour