angst

She looked at her hand: Just some hand, holding a cheap pen. Some girls_ hand. She had nothing to do with that hand. Let that hand do whatever it wanted to.

Chrystle? I'm back!" I refused to say that I was home because Cassie was my home. But I'd lost that, and her, forever, so I'd never truly be home again.

The young of the town, preoccupied with their own germinating angst, which each possessed in varying degree (though few were ever fully aware of its existence), felt no particular connection to the land, its people, its structures, or its history. As such, they had no inclination to defend its invisible borders from declared enemies within or without. They desired only escape from this small village, which each viewed as an existential prison built upon the antiquated expectations of their parents and their parents_ parents. And because of their invisible bondage, the young of this town were possessed by a quiet rage. But this rage laid torpid and inert within them, dulled to sleep by the tired repetition of nothing happening over and over and over again, day after day after day.This is the story of one of those young people, and the terrible things that happened to her, and the terrible things she did as a result.

I tried very hard not to ponder the horrible irony that I was too ugly to love, and too ugly not to violate.

His dark gaze searched her face. __ren__ you curious, inspector? A kiss__nd only a kiss.__nly a kiss . . . from someone who wanted her. Longing slipped through her, tugging at hopes best kept buried. Yes, Mina wanted to know. But she couldn__ afford it.__o,_ she said.He smiled. __iar.

What in God's name did he want me to say? That I agreed with him completely at how our kiss had been successful? That it had meant as much as a kiss I'd drop on top of a child's head before bed to him? Well I wouldn't lie for the sake of lying. I'd rather stay silent and realize that the kind, gentle, passionate person I'd fallen for didn't exist and in his place was a cold, unfeeling fool who wouldn't know romance even if it had slapped him in the face.

The moment he laid eyes on Kuga, I knew. There's a reason I'm doing this to him. I want to see it; how he's fallen in love with a guy, and how he makes him his own. And then what I've done will become a sharp knife, thrown right back at me.That's right. I just wanted to see.And the meaning behind the sharp knife flying towards me: Why not me? Why can't it be me? All this time, I would be lying if I said I've never wished for it, but by being merely an observer, I've somehow managed to distance myself.Kuga is a bright light, like the sun. I, on the other hand... (Yashiro)

She personified her name in everything she did. Even when we would row, her words were deftly chosen and spoken rather like an intricate dance. And I so loved to dance with her.

It was February sixth: eight days until Valentine's Day. I was dateless, as usual, deep in the vice grip of unrequited love. It was bad enough not having a boyfriend for New Year's Eve. Now I had to cope with Valentine datelessness, feeling consummate social pressure from every retailer in America who stuck hearts and cupids in their windows by January second to rub it in.

She couldn__ get any farther away inside from her skin. She couldn__ get away.

He started to draw. He drew from memory. He had a good memory, something which, all things considered, was far from a blessing.The pencils moved quickly across the paper, scratching back and forth in deepening shades of grey. He leaned low over the paper, concentrating all his energy on his work. The candles flickered and dripped wax, having nothing better to do.Eventually he lifted his head and looked at his creation. The face of a young woman stared back at him from the paper, a slight smile playing on her lips. She looked as if she was about to say something, and that once she had you would laugh. She looked happy.Seven stared at the picture, his strange eyes unreadable _ eyes that, now he made no effort to mask them, were from edge to edge only the deep blue of the dead ocean. He swallowed hard, as if he was trying to imbibe something foul tasting but necessary, like a child sipping medicine, and pulled another sheet of paper from his desk.

No matter where I went, where I__e gone, what I__e seen and what I__e done_you have never not been wit_ me. You__e always been my home.

My mother was gone. The whole world should be black and cold. Nothing should look beautiful.

Are these things really better than the things I already have? Or am I just trained to be dissatisfied with what I have now?

It's better to say goodbye, to move on, to end the lie.

Somebody's got to win this war, right?

Frankly, if her face wasn't so cute, I would most certainly have been punching it.

I was free, free from all the distress and angst i felt before. Her red string of fate was tied to someone else and my thread was broken.