Archive for the True Stories Category

Theraisa, Theraisa

Posted in Love Stories, Sad Stories, Stories, True Stories with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on May 24, 2013 by Myra's Circle

She stares out the window, hoping he’ll come.  Hoping he’ll come shouting, “Theraisa, Theraisa, are you still there?  Theraisa, Theraisa, with thy silver hair?”  just like he used to always do.  He would always jokingly use old words instead of the new, modernized terms.  He always likes old things, because he says they are what holds the most hope inside.  Hope, she decides, is still important for her.  They may think that her mind is damaged, that it is irreparable, but it isn’t.  Theraisa’s mind is fine.  There is nothing wrong with it.  The sisters in the convent always say that contact with one from outside was obviously the behavior of one who was mentally ill.  “But I’m not mentally ill, I’m not,” she whispers quietly to herself, wanting desperately to believe it.  But how could she when she had been told otherwise for her whole life?  He would come.  He’d have to come.  Right?  She closes her eyes, wishing someone would understand her, understand that she has feelings too.  She sighs and stares sadly out the window.  All of the other girls living there, and the sisters too, would sigh when they saw her there, sitting at the window day after day.  Then they would mutter, “Poor little Theraisa.  Something must be done for that girl.”  They had banned her from seeing him, and him from coming to find her, but she still had her dreams.  She dreamed that one day, he’d come, and he’d rescue her from this place.  It was a dreary place, always raining, and filled with gloom.  There was no future for Theraisa there.  She sits there for days sometimes, refusing to move, refusing all offers of food.  She stays there and hopes.  That’s when the head nun decided that it was enough.  “It isn’t healthy.  You shouldn’t be allowed near other girls.  They might start picking up some… unseemly habits.”  Theraisa knew what would happen.  She knew she was going someplace where no one would ever see her again.  Often, when a girl misbehaved, or was seen as mentally damaged, they would be taken to a room high up, a special room.  Tears pricked at her eyes, but she held them back.  She didn’t want to display weakness in front of this woman.  She felt a single tear slide down her cheek as the nun led her up to the dark, scary attic.  It was a lot like she imagined: dark, lonely, with only a single window to lighten it.  “Here we are, it’s ok, you won’t be up here for long,” murmured the nun unconvincingly.  As she locked the door with a click behind her, Theraisa whispered, “Please don’t leave me alone.”  She weeps a little, into the uncomforting darkness, all hope has abandoned her now.  Then there was a movement, outside the window – was it- yes it was him!  She was sure of it.  She grabs a chair, the only furniture in the room, and stands up on it, to get a better look, but he had already disappeared.  As she started weeping again, she began to shake uncontrollably, and lost her balance.  The chair falls from beneath her, and she can hear a faint sound of shattering glass over the pounding of her heart.  Pain laces through her neck as the glass slits her throat, and blood gashes out, red and thick in the twilight.  Somehow, she manages to find her way to the door, and she scratches heavily on it.  No one answers.  No one cares.  The scratching is a usual thing.  “Help, help!” she feebly cries, but with too much force than her body can handle.  She coughs up blood, and in her last painful moments, she murmurs, “Cecil,” forcing her to cough up yet more blood.  Then she is shockingly still.

The head nun hears a faint dripping sound and turns.  She stares in horror at the sight of blood, pure and red, dripping through the ceiling.  She rushes up to the attic, and with shaking hands, unlocks the door.  She turns the handle and her eyes widen in shock and terror with the sight that confronts her.  Poor little Theraisa.  Poor little, sweet, mad Theraisa, lying in a pool of her own blood.  The sight is too much.  The nun can’t help but feel as if it is her fault.  “I was just trying to protect you,” she murmurs to the cold, limp body, as if it could still hear her.  The tears can’t help but flow, and the sister collapses on the ground in hysterical hiccups.

Decades later, a group of students pass by the old building and wonder about the death.  The place is now a school, and rumours are circulating about the mysterious ghost Theraisa.  The students all laugh and pass it off as a joke, all except for one.  As they are about to move on, that one student sees a movement in the window, the curtains being blown aside, and for a moment, the figure of a girl appears, still desperately trying to get a last glimpse of her lover.  And then she disappears.  The student tries to forget about that, but it keeps bothering her.  She cannot keep the thought of the girl out of her mind, or her haunting chant: “Theraisa, Theraisa, are you there?  Theraisa, Theraisa, with thy silver hair?”  

***This story is partly true.  It is based on the rumour of the Ghost of my Highschool.  Though the girl’s story is real, the ghost is still yet to be proven***

Run Away

Posted in Hopeful Stories, Sad Stories, Stories, True Stories with tags , on March 9, 2013 by Myra's Circle

Run away, run away.  Run away from yourself.  That’s what they all tell me.  But I don’t want to run.  I’m sick of running.  What’s the point?  You’re going to catch up to yourself anyway.  It is only a matter of time.  Running just exhausts me.  I can’t run anymore.  I’ll never be free.  I know that.  It won’t be any different just because I’m running away from the grave truth.  No, I won’t run anymore.  I can’t.  I have to face my past, my future, my present, my everything.  Just face it, and keep going.  That’s life’s lesson, right?  I suppose so, but I’ll never really know if I keep running.

I Live in the Dream of Reality

Posted in Stories, True Stories with tags , , , , , on November 5, 2012 by Myra's Circle

Can reality be a dream, and dreams a reality?  I think so.  The way I see it, my whole life has been a realistic dream, filled with crazy ups and downs.  I know that my life’s a story, and that one day, when I’m re-reading it, I want it to be good enough to read again.  What I don’t get, is that why do we choose only the things that will destroy us the most?  Always choosing the thing we’ll never get, befriending someone who we know will stab us in the back (Perhaps we’re trying to see the good in them?).  It seems to be some strange habit that everyone picks up along the way, and when we think about it, we regret our decision for the rest of our lives.  Maybe, it’s just God’s way of making us stronger.  Maybe, there’s no reason for it at all.  Either way, it’s an annoying habit I’d really like to quit.  In a way, it kind of reminds me of smoking.  Once your hooked, you can’t stop.  And that’s what makes our lives so hard.

Maturity

Posted in Stories, True Stories with tags , , , , , on October 25, 2012 by Myra's Circle

Pain never really leaves you.  Once it’s there, it’s there for good.  But it lessens with time, and suddenly you stop hurting and just want to forgive.  Suddenly, you don’t really care anymore.  Suddenly, a voice in your head says, “Let it end.”  And that’s okay.  That voice is the old, wise one that all minds have.  We are just not aware of it yet.  As we grow older, we start hearing that voice more and more, telling us things that we hadn’t ever known.  Age makes us aware of that wise little voice in our heads that tells us to let everything go.  And age makes us trust that little voice.  As we grow older, suddenly, that voice gets louder, and it becomes a big voice, and a big part of our lives.  I think that’s what maturity really is: being able to listen – without doubts – to that little voice in our heads.

An Escape

Posted in Sad Stories, Stories, True Stories with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on October 24, 2012 by Myra's Circle

I wondered, staring up at the moon like this, if my life would ever be as full as that shining rock in the sky.  It’s light cast pale shadows over my backyard, and I stared out at the scene in front of me.  I came out here a lot; whenever I felt sad, or lonely, or misunderstood.  I had just had an argument with my mother and lost, and my mind seemed to be racing away from me.  Though it was quite late, the full moon brightened the dark, weary sky and made it look to be about seven o’clock.  I sighed, and shifted, when I heard someone in the room behind me.  No one knew that I came out here, and I preferred to keep it that way.  For me it was a place to escape to, where nothing else existed but me.  I guess it’s kind of selfish of me to think like that, but it always made me feel better.  I think I just need the fresh air.  I gulped some of it in, then, breathing in the scent of night.  Night smells teasingly of a new day about to start, but is not quite there yet.  They say that night is for the madmen, and the poets.  Maybe I am both?  I am not sure.  Sometimes I feel a little mad.  I hear voices in my head teasing me, but I know that those voices are just mine, encouraging me, egging me on.  I sat there, unsure, for ten minutes, twenty, until I finally fell asleep to night’s sweet lullaby.

The Beauty of Music

Posted in Hopeful Stories, Stories, True Stories with tags , , , , , , on October 19, 2012 by Myra's Circle

The beauty of music is never to be taken for granted or underestimated, for it lodges itself in your mind and stays there, reminding you of your long forgotten past.  It takes hold and refuses to let go, and in the long run, it’s always for the better.  Music has the ability to twist or change you into a whole different person, making you more confident, or more kind.  It makes you see the pains this world has been submerged in, or the love that a single person has died for.  Even if you forget it, you will never forget it’s influence on you, because it will always be there, never to disappear.  Never underestimate music, for it has a strange sort of power to change even the most twisted person into someone to look up to.  Only monsters refuse to truly listen and realise how beautiful music really is, for, what kind of monster hates music?

Dreams

Posted in Hopeful Stories, Stories, True Stories with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 19, 2012 by Myra's Circle

Dreams are funny things, they are.  They make no sense.  People say that some dreams mean something, but I don’t believe them.  Dreams don’t mean anything.  They’re just dreams.  People say that bad dreams are signs of anxiety.  I suppose they are, when they are about what is making you anxious.  My name is Clara and I guess you could classify me as a professional dreamer.  Every night I dream a different dream.  I don’t really get dreams.  I once had a dream that I was on top of the Eiffel Tower, which was swaying like a balloon man you sometimes see outside stores.  There were three chipmunks with me, but I don’t know why.  For some reason, I had sunscreen on my hands, which meant I couldn’t hold onto the tower to keep my balance.  The tower tilted rapidly and I fell and next moment I woke up in my bed.  See what I mean?  Dreams are just so unpredictable.  Another time, when I was six, I dreamt of going to a hotel, where behind some curtains there was a yeti, which I befriended.  At the time, that dream was terrifying, but as it turns out, I got the yeti from a movie.  Anyway, I just love dreams.  They make you believe anything is possible.  I wish that were true sometimes, like when you’re upset and you just want to fly away from everything.  But I don’t know where you get dreams.  Maybe more creative people dream more than others?  But I dunno.  I’m just a kid, not a professional psychologist.