𝐉𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐕𝐀||

As I toss and turn in my bed, I can't seem to get comfortable. Ever since I got home, I've had this sense of unease. The familiar creaks and groans of the old house, and the distant hum of cicadas, all bring back memories I'd rather forget. My childhood, with all its rigid expectations and stifling rules, haunts me. Every corner of this house holds a fragment of a past I wish I could escape.

I hate being here. The oppressive atmosphere, and the constant feeling of being watched and judged, make my skin crawl. I can't wait to be at peace, to find a space where I can breathe freely. Maybe I should use what little money I have saved and rent an apartment until I go back to college? The idea flits through my mind, a tantalizing escape route. But no, my parents would be upset, and they would know something was wrong. I have to keep up the act, keep pretending everything is fine. Maybe if being an author fails, I can try being an actor.

As I cuddle up next to my pillow, I feel a sudden sense of warmth. It's an unfamiliar feeling, like being enveloped in a comforting embrace. Calmness washes over me, and for the first time since coming home, I feel a sense of safety. It's odd, almost otherworldly, this unexpected solace.

I close my eyes, savoring the rare moment of peace. The warmth seems to wrap around me, like an invisible blanket, easing the tension from my muscles. My breathing slows, and my restless thoughts begin to quiet. There's a presence here, something soothing and protective, unlike anything I've ever felt before.

As I sink deeper into the comfort, I wonder if this is what true safety feels like. Not the superficial kind my parents claim to provide, but a deeper, more profound sense of being cared for. It's as if someone, or something, is watching over me, ensuring that I am shielded from harm.

I try to brush off the sensation, attributing it to exhaustion or an overactive imagination. But the feeling remains a steady, gentle pressure that reassures me in a way I can't quite understand. Despite the eerie quality of it, I can't help but lean into the warmth, allowing it to lull me into a rare, peaceful sleep.

In the back of my mind, I make a mental note to explore this feeling further. Maybe it's nothing, just a trick of the mind. But maybe, just maybe, there's more to it. As I drift off, the thought lingers, a faint whisper in the darkness.

𝐑𝐔𝐍𝐄||

I watch with a worried look as she tosses and turns, her frustration evident in every movement. She groans loudly every now and then, her attempts to find comfort only seeming to elude her further. Despite her evident irritation, I can't help but find her endearing. The furrow of her brow, the way her lips pressed together in a pout—it is all too adorable.

As minutes turn into half an hour, I can't tear my gaze away from her. It is as if some invisible force compels me to stay by her side, to ensure her well-being. Is this what all demons feel when they possess someone? I wonder, the thought lingering in the back of my mind like a persistent whisper.

Finally, unable to resist any longer, I reach out and gently rest my hand on her shoulder. To my surprise, her movements still almost immediately, as if my touch had brought her a measure of comfort. It is a strange sensation, this desire to protect her, to make sure she is okay at all times. Yet, despite its unfamiliarity, it feels right somehow.

As she drifts off to sleep, I stand up from her bed and began to explore her room. The decor hints at a childhood bedroom, with its array of stuffed animals and whimsical decorations. I glance around at the random photos scattered across her walls, seeing a few females, who I can only guess are her friends. But one photo caught my eye—a picture of her hugging a boy, who appeared to be much younger than her. Brother, perhaps? It seems odd that I hadn't seen him around yet, considering he looks at least four years younger than her.

Continuing my inspection, I notice various childish trinkets scattered about—stuffed animals, Barbie dolls, and other relics of her youth. There are paintings hung on the walls, each one telling a story of its own. And on her desk, amidst a scattering of papers, one catches my eye. I gently pick it up, reading over it. 

They say that happiness finds you, but I think sadness finds you too,

it sneaks up on you in the darkness,
just as you think you've made it through,
It opens holes in what was solid ground,
the kind you never know are there until you go to take another step,
and find you're standing on air.

The world around you passes by,
it blurs with color and sound.
Nothing around you makes sense as you continue your plummet down.
You can't remember how it started and you don't know when it will end,
but you know you'd give anything to stand on your feet again.

Sadness is that feeling when the falling doesn't stop,
and it zaps your life of meaning and all the good things that you've got.
So when you finally hit rock bottom and you look back up at the sky,
what you once had seems so far away, and the only thing left to do is cry...

Within your mind, you cry,
you beg for the people that say they love you to see the clues you leave behind,
unable to tell them how you really feel,
yet they are blinded by everyday life,
and believe the fake smile that never really leaves your lips.
They preach of happiness and hope,
they teach that God will always be there when you're down when your heart is broken when the world seems to be crumbling at your fingertips...

But when you cry out to God for help,
for Him to tell your parents that you are broken, that you fantasize about dying, He does nothing.
You are left, alone, feeling as if you tell the people you love about your mental state,
you'll be a burden,
or better yet they'll call you selfish and name off all things you should be happy about...

When you finally build up the courage to say something, they begin to quote the bible, saying, "The Lord Himself goes before you and be with you; He will never leave you nor forsake you. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged."

While they continue to preach the bible, you are left, sitting there,
wishing you never told them anything,
regretting you ever thought you could have trusted them.
People all yell down at you as you are curled up in a ball, crying.

They yell down at you as you lay at rock bottom, too weak to stand back up, to fight.
They yell "SAVE YOURSELF" Saying things like "Happiness" and "Hope" and "You can only find these things in God."

BUT HE WASN'T THERE! Not when I needed him.
But they're too busy with their lives to realize,
it'd be a lot quicker if they'd let down a rope, to save you.

As I read the poignant words scrawled across the paper, I can't help but feel a pang of empathy for Jeniva. Her verses paint a vivid picture of the struggles she faced, the weight of sadness pressing down on her like an unyielding burden. It was a raw and honest expression of her inner turmoil, a silent plea for understanding and compassion.

"They say that happiness finds you, but I think sadness finds you too," the words echoed in my mind, resonating with a haunting truth. Jeniva's poetic voice captured the essence of despair, the relentless descent into darkness that consumes the soul. It was a stark reminder of the fragility of human emotions, the fragility of the human spirit.

As I glance back at Jeniva, curled up in her bed, my heart aches for her. She is a poet, a sensitive soul who pours her heart out onto the page. Yet, her parents, devout believers in their faith, seem oblivious to her silent cries for help. Their reliance on scripture and platitudes offers little comfort to a soul drowning in sorrow.

I can sense her longing for connection, her yearning to be seen and understood. But in a world blind by its own preconceptions, she is left to suffer in silence, her pain buried beneath a facade of false smiles and empty assurances. She's so consumed with making everyone else smile, that she forgets her own. 

I swallow thickly as I place the piece of paper back down on her desk, my thoughts swirling with a mixture of concern and frustration. "She's a poet. She writes, of course, she does," I murmur to myself, a sense of admiration mingling with my concern.

But her parents, staunch believers in their faith, are a different story. Their unwavering devotion to scripture and doctrine leaves little room for empathy or understanding. They preach of happiness and hope, yet fail to see the darkness that consumed their own daughter.

As I watch Jeniva, lost in her own world of pain and uncertainty, I can't help but feel a surge of protectiveness towards her. She is a soul in need of salvation, a beacon of light amidst the darkness. And though her parents may be blind to her struggles, I vow to stand by her side, a silent guardian in the shadows, offering solace and support in her time of need.

How do you feel about Jeniva? Do you like her so far?