Post by JoDee Belle Grant on May 20, 2007 20:05:48 GMT -5
JoDee Belle was in quite a state. Her eyes were glassy from a few tears, but not red. She never let herself cry enough for her eyes to get red and swollen. She took deep, shaky breaths in an attempt to calm herself. She didn't know what to make of the happenings of the past week.
She had gone for years living with her parents - well, okay, they were her adopted parents - and now all of a sudden some random man comes and claims himself to be her father! He had no right to even speak to her, let alone try and gain custody of her! Not that it truly mattered anyway. In two years she would be eighteen, and nobody would own her.
She took another breath and sat down at a picnic table, straddling the bench with her legs. She ran her hands through her chocolate brown hair, which was, for once, not in some interesting updo. She pulled a notebook sized writing pad from her messenger bag and a pen from her purse, and began to write.
Writing calmed her. She liked writing. She never used colorful ink or cute feather pens or anything of the like, and certainly not pencil. She used plain, black pens. She liked the way the ink flowed into words onto the paper. She liked the simpleness of it. She wrote a few words, then reached again into her bag to pull out a can of soda. She popped the top and took a few gulps. Then, she dropped her head into her hands, trying one last time to gain complete control of her thoughts.
She had gone for years living with her parents - well, okay, they were her adopted parents - and now all of a sudden some random man comes and claims himself to be her father! He had no right to even speak to her, let alone try and gain custody of her! Not that it truly mattered anyway. In two years she would be eighteen, and nobody would own her.
She took another breath and sat down at a picnic table, straddling the bench with her legs. She ran her hands through her chocolate brown hair, which was, for once, not in some interesting updo. She pulled a notebook sized writing pad from her messenger bag and a pen from her purse, and began to write.
Writing calmed her. She liked writing. She never used colorful ink or cute feather pens or anything of the like, and certainly not pencil. She used plain, black pens. She liked the way the ink flowed into words onto the paper. She liked the simpleness of it. She wrote a few words, then reached again into her bag to pull out a can of soda. She popped the top and took a few gulps. Then, she dropped her head into her hands, trying one last time to gain complete control of her thoughts.
