Whoop de do, jeg har begynt å skrive igjen. Med det mener jeg at jeg skriver mer seriøse ting enn random skriblinger som tar tre minutter og som jeg poster uten å gå igjennom.
Anyways, legger ut introduksjonsdelen. Jeg er ikke ute etter meningsløst skryt, selvom det alltids er hyggelig. Det jeg vil ha er konstruktiv kritikk, spesielt av den typen som går på plott og sammenhenger, og ikke av typen "hei du har en typo der" selvom jeg setter pris på det også. Så får vi se om jeg blir ferdig med den. Håper på å nå 10 K. Oh well, here goes.
----
A long time ago, my mother used to tell me fairy tales.
Not the ones about Little Red Riding Hood or Rapunzel, but unique fairy tales about witches, wizards, fairies and most important of all, magic. I remember sitting on her lap, listening to her soothing voice and how she stroked my hair under the worst part of the tale. She didn't leave out any details, she told about how the guards blood splattered on the ground, how the princess watched her prince die or how the dragon ate the shining knight in white armor. I suspect she secretly loved those parts of the tales more than the happy ones.
When I think back, my mom probably shouldn't have told me all those stories. I always got some kind of nightmare after listening to her. What can I say, I was just a kid and kids probably shouldn't be put to bed after listening to a story about how a girl was maimed because she didn't wear iron when she went out to pick flowers. Then again, most parents let their children play those really graphic shooting games with lots of blood and gore. But the most special part about all of her stories, was that she strongly believed them herself. I guess that's the reason my other relatives got her admitted to a mental hospital. I probably would've done the same if it were my sister going on and on about fairies, how everyone should wear a piece of iron and avoid wearing silver. She once attempted to drag the new silver earrings off my aunt. It's a fond memory.
I used to believe her stories before, but I know now that they are just the ramblings of a slightly insane woman who lost it because the father of her child left her. That's what the doctors think, anyway. They don't really know what kind of illness she got, but the doctors are trying really hard to find out. At least that's what they say, but I suspect them of just letting her sit in her room and instead of doing something reasonable, they just try to milk as much money from my uncle and aunt as they can't. At least they haven't attempted to give her shock treatment yet. Even though that wouldn't surprise me one bit, considering the lack of sympathy and humanity the doctors show.
I used to live with my uncle and aunt, but after turning 18, I was more or less kicked out. I never knew my father, and every time I tried asking my mother about him, she wouldn't reply. It is hard trying to talk to my mother, because nowadays she simply stares out of her window and mutter foreign words. I think the doctors are trying out a new type of medication on her, but they didn't tell me anything. They just see me as this silly overgrown kid with a crazy mother. I wish I could take her out of the institution, but the doctors wont let her go, saying she needs the help. Before she went to the institution, my mother was full of life. She would dance around in the living room and sing before playing with me, make me dinner and tell me stories. Mom had curves, and was maybe a tad bit round in her cheeks, but that didn't lessen her beauty. She was a proud blonde with shiny hair (even though I believe the cause of that was several expensive hair products rather than a blessinf from the natures side) and was quick to smile. Now, she sits still in her chair at the institution and barely talks. She's thin, the blond hair she used to be so proud of has faded, and the life she was overflowing with in the earlier days are almost gone. Sometimes I see a glimpse of her old self in her eyes, but it's gone almost as fast as it came.
My name is Matthew, and I'm 19 years old and majoring in English. I guess after listening to all of the fairy tales from my mother since I was a child, it just seemed like the way to go. I wanna write my own stories once, maybe write down all of my mothers fairy tales. I think she would like that. I just haven't gotten the courage to ask her if that's alright. The doctors are also a bit strict that I shouldn't pretend that her fantasies are real. Douchebags. I probably have to take her out of that bloody institution to get her to re-tell me them again. It's a bit sad that the stories are starting to fade from my memory. I don't really remember the stories anymore, but I do remember mom telling me them. Sometimes, I really wish we could go back to those happy times.
I could pretend that I was someone really interesting, but aside from the fact that I used to get nightmares from the fairy tales, there's nothing interesting about me. I'm normal, a plain Joe. I have plain brown hair, brown eyes, white skin that burns easily in the sun and I have reading glasses. I'm gonna graduate, get stuck in a shitty job, get a girlfriend, get married and have kids, and then I'll die. For most people, it probably sounds bad, but it's alright. No expectations, no disappointments, eh?
Well, that's at least what I always thought my life would be like. Little did I know that it would be much much more different than I'd ever imagine.
----
There you go. Orginalt hadde jeg tenkt meg 1000 ord, men 970 var close enough. Dette er introduksjonsdelen, så hvis du håpet på en masse handling, så er jeg redd at jeg har skuffet deg. Handling kommer senere, I promise. Akter ikke å la dette være en av de mange twilightaktige historiene med tusen forskjellige karakterer med null personlighet evt. et personlighetstrekk og flat handlingskurve. So yeah, tell me what you think.