Everything has a story. The tiniest scratch. The largest scar. The most random birth mark. Just like any part of a living thing has a story, every inanimate object has a story too. My white, dusty wardrobe has a life of its own. It swallows any item of clothing it can, feeding off of worn jumpers, unused t-shirts, my favourite jeans. It swallows shoes of every kind: old trainers, their once white base now plastered with dirty brown mud; black boots, worn once at a party, and never touched since; bold flip flops with bright, unique colours, that would only ever be seen abroad, with no one to judge their foolishness. Clattering of high heels, however, disappointed my wardrobe- shopping spree gone drastically wrong once again. Along with storing my loved essentials, it also holds my prized possessions. It loves the smell of my rapidly increasing candle collection, and the way each and every one has a very different, but completely overwhelming scent, getting excited when new replaces old. Also, anywhere I can fit them, board games scatter, creating a sense of unity- they did nothing better than attract family. Speaking of my wardrobe and I as a relationship would be considered a weird thing to think about, but really it’s more complicated than you might think. We depend on each other to live- without me, my wardrobe has no purpose, and without my wardrobe; I would survive, but in today’s society, I might as well be dead. So yes, my wardrobe has it’s own life. But it’s enjoyment comes from assisting me, and for that, I should be more grateful. But who cares about a wardrobe, if it has less importance than me?

Forever I dreamed of having the perfect life. The perfect wife, the perfect job, the perfect house: a perfect, happy family who I could rely on. Never did I realise my life would completely change after gaining what I had always wanted; never did I think it would be the cause of my life’s destruction. My wife, Sarah, the one and only light in my life. Until she was the one who diminished it. The one who, despite everything, gave up all of our stuff, our money and our future for one small bet. Gambling can eat a person alive, and the competitiveness in her only fuelled her only desire to win big. Aurora’s brightness was now shadowed by Sarah’s darkness, her own mother pushing her away like she was nothing. I tried to protect her from this as much as I could, but I failed. I failed at the one thing I thought I could do, and I let Sarah gamble away the rest of our lives to try and uphold her reputation and honour. Her boastful ego and pride made her lose. For the first time in her life, she had realised she was never going to always win. A game of poker gone wrong, she would try and excuse her actions, whereas in reality, she had lost. And there was nothing wrong with that. But she broke out in a fit and rage of temper, nearly murdering one of her opponents by pushing him over on to broken glass. Ended up hospitalised. And Aurora watched as her mum fought a whole gang of men, watching her chances at having advice over boys, gossiping about the latest celebrity news, shopping with her mother for days on end: all disappear. We still visit Sarah sometimes; it’s best for Aurora not to completely push her out of our lives, but she was manipulative and sometimes made her daughter cry. I limited the amount of times we saw her and eventually Aurora got used to never seeing her mother. The poor excuse of a mother, who destroyed her future because she was too much of a sore loser.

many stories are written, about the unrealistic concept of magic, but i believe it appears in a different form, one which is more sentimental and easy to believe. it is felt when a loved one is near, when they’re holding you close and comforting you in the dark, it is felt when you think everything has gone, but a tiny glimmer of hope appears in you to help you carry on, it is felt when you feel pure happiness, the bliss of being around family, and finally feeling free. magic isn’t what you think it is, but it most certainly is real.

Nothing feels real anymore. Everything I do ends up in me being hurt, and destroyed with whatever mistake I made that time. Because there’s always at least one thing I did wrong to make me feel this much pain. Usually, it’s little things like having an argument with a close friend, or falling over and having a small cut on my leg. Other times it’s more severe; like this time, for instance. Even those times it was small, I was still the one who managed to make me end up in the situations- I was a curse that can only be broken by the miracle of one of my plans going right. This time though, I don’t know whether I can recover, not just from the pain but from the utter embarrassment I still feel after the incident. Amelia has been my friend for years; we’ve never really been extremely close, but we have mutual friends and talk sometimes. However, whenever we talk I feel like we have a strong, powerful connection- sort of like a magnet which draws us together. I know it sounds cheesy but it’s the only way to describe it; we have so much in common it’s like we’re the same person. One day I decided I would tell her how I felt, and I planned to pull her aside that day so we were alone. But then I found out she had a boyfriend. She was holding onto his arm as we all walked, me, Amelia, Eric (her boyfriend) and five others. I decided I wasn’t going to pull her aside; besides, she had a boyfriend so she wouldn’t feel the same way. But the more I walked, the more I realised I needed to get it off my chest. Pulling her aside was a task in itself. It was like she was attached to Eric, and she couldn’t let go. Eventually, I was able to get her to come and talk to me without Eric really knowing, because that would be a disaster in itself. I was getting tired anyway, so I thought if all goes terribly wrong, I had the option of walking back home. So it happened. I expressed and opened myself up to her, and she was left speechless. She was shocked and so surprised. I didn’t know what to do. So I left. Walked away from the problem like always. Basically it ended in total disaster. I always declined the offers my friends gave me of going out with them, and it got to the point where they just stopped asking. I became isolated and never really talked to anyone anymore; she was still part of that group and I didn’t want to make things worse. And now, here I am, recalling the biggest mistake I’ve ever made in my life. So far anyway. My life’s just full of mistakes.

Ironically, this was the place I first began thinking I was safe. In the comfort of my friend’s basement, continuously playing video games until we couldn’t keep our eyes open anymore. I can’t keep my eyes open now either. But that’s for a totally different reason. There’s currently three open wounds on my face, bleeding onto my clothes. The scent of the deceased lingers in the air, and I face the fact that this house no longer has three occupants. That number decreased about 30 minutes ago, but I must’ve been knocked out then. Painfully, I turn my body to face the side wall, and confirm my thoughts, seeing the mutilated body of Jasper. Soon enough, footsteps begin to echo from the wooden stairs leading to my place of capture, and even though I know it can’t be, I still pray it’s someone here to rescue me. However, the masked face stands before me, and I know my fate lies in his hands- he’s going to kill me any second now. Pleadingly, my mind forced me to beg, asking for my life. “Please, you have to let me go. Please. Please! I’m begging you, let me go!” His head tilts to the side, as if mocking my attempt of survival. Then, the room fills with shrill laughter sending shivers down my spine and forming goosebumps all over my body. “You think this is funny? Capturing someone just to see them beg before you murder them?” I realise now that this was my mistake. Provoking the attacker. The one who left me here to rot. Suddenly, he starts charging towards me, frantically waving his knife around, and I know I’ve crossed the line. “Please, stop, please! Stop! I’m sorry! Please don’t hurt me!” He stops, the knife centimetres away from my throat. “Please, I’ll do anything. I can get you money, do you want money? Or I can give you something else, something else you want, what do you want? Please! Please tell me what you want, I’ll do anything!” Five minutes. It seems like a long time, but when you’re begging for your life in the basement of your dead friend’s house, it’s much less shorter than you think. Five minutes was how long I had been begging for my life, before the psychopath finally spoke. “I only want one thing from you. Not money, not gifts or trades or things I don’t need. The only thing I want from you, is for you to die.” And that’s when he stabbed me in the abdomen, leaving me to bleed out, next to my dead friend, covered in dark red blood.

Death comes sooner than you think. It’s an inevitable bolt of lightning that strikes you when you least expect it. At least, that was the case with me. I found that out sooner rather than later. My life used to be enjoyable; full of never-ending surprises that would fill even the most unfortunate person with joy. It was a rollercoaster with many twists and turns, making my life more difficult than it needed to be, but I was willing to take that risk to have a life full of fortune. However, it seems that the rollercoaster stopped working half way through a loop, and crashed into the concrete ground. My childhood destroyed me: I was constantly ruined by the alcoholic man who lived in the bar across the street. That’s why, when I received the letter that would turn out to be my downfall, I was thrilled, over the moon and quick to fully accept everything they asked for. I would soon learn this act of foolishness would be my biggest regret. After receiving the information that I was needed for an audition for a role in a huge movie, I was the most happiest girl alive. Only for a short moment. After I performed, harnessing my emotions for my father and using them to my advantage, they were sure I was the one- never did I think I was stupid to be ecstatic with this news. I don’t know where exactly my life started to drop upside down from the loop. I guess it could have been anywhere between the end of my only movie, and the start of my drinking habit, which I would find out was the cause of my unexpected death. It’s hypocritical, that my downfall was something I despised, mainly because my father depended on it. I guess that’s where my life’s ending really started- with the drink my father would always have in his hand. The drink I wish would disappear everytime I stared at it hatefully. The drink I would also soon depend on. From my hospital bed I begin to wonder what life could have been like, if I wasn’t discarded after my average performance as an amateur actor in a disastrous movie that nearly ended everyone’s careers involved in it. How amazing life could’ve been. But it was suddenly over, only 10 years after my debut. The rollercoaster has finally stopped, and it’ll never run again. The empty beer bottle beside my bed was one of many, and the biggest mistake of my life. At least I could put the blame on someone else- the cowardly thing to do in a time of crisis. It was your fault dad. You were the downfall of my life. Not my small career, not my drinking problem. You. And you’ll have to live with that for the rest of your life. My death was your fault. Hopefully, your famous last words won’t come as quick and unexpectedly as mine.

Together we stand, Standing proudly side by side, Always, forever, Holding each other closely, Never, not once, letting go.

It was the thing she said she could never live without; the thing she always had with her, wrapped in a worn, rotten blanket she described as ‘beautiful’. Whenever she looked for comfort, she would reveal the gift that lay underneath the wrapping paper, the treasure hidden inside the chest, the joy found from a surprise: her one and only possession she could say was special. The damaged cover, at the brink of falling apart, but staying together just to keep the smile on her face. The yellowed pages crinkling at the edges, but staying together just to keep the light shining in her eyes every time she reread her favourite stories. Her face is always the same- ecstatic and smiling lovingly, glossy eyes creasing with happiness. Nothing did she hold so close to her heart. She used to tell me of all the wonderful stories she had read from her only safe haven. How they never failed to make her laugh with excitement, joy, content. How her father would sometimes sit with her before she fell asleep, reading all his favourites from when he was a little boy, his voice so full of expression it felt like she was really there, in a pirate ship on the dark sea, or a castle, watching the events play out from afar. Now, years later, she still read to herself, remembering her father as he watched from above, listening to her gentle voice whisper: ‘And they all lived happily ever after,’ before she wrapped the book back up in his frayed purple blanket, and cried silently to herself in isolation.