Prologue

This isn’t my journal, not my story. I’ve been continuing it for her. Every page is a pain, the only thing I use to carry on. I’ve read every page at least once, looked at her hand writing, some of the pen has bled from my constant tears that fall across my face and onto the pages below. I remember when she died, how much I cried and screamed. Her voice, she told me to stay strong, told me, ‘don’t you fucking give up’. I hold onto her wisdom- well not that she’s an old grandpa giving out his advice to his grand kids kinda wisdom, but without her words of encouragement I feel empty. Void of existence. Like a part of me is gone… because it is and it’s killing me, slowing from the inside out, I know I’ll see her again, eventually…