Dear Reader,

Dear Reader,
If you find this, then I'll be really grateful if you read it. If you find it, you should know that you were chosen. You should know that you were sent from heaven to me, because for me, reading this would be the most helpful thing anyone can do.
I didn't know my life would change like this, reader. I didn't know things could get this bad, but it's okay. I'm still grateful, at least I have something to write with and someone to write for. Writing can really be helpful. If you're mad about something, reader, I think you should write about it, it helps.
I hope I don't make you cry, reader, because if you're reading this right now, you're special to me, and I don't like to make people cry. Especially if I care about them.
I'm sorry for what you're about to read. I'm sorry to write it.
Here's my story.
(Author's Note: The story's rated yellow because it has too much aggression in it.)


1. Chapter One

4th - June - 2013


Dear Reader, 

I'm not really sure how to start this, but I'll go with whatever my fingers decide to write. It's hard to write here, when you know that every mistake you make cannot be forgiven and backspaced. 


So, my name's Owen Brown. I'm seventeen and I live with my family. My parents and my sisters. I have no brothers, and I have no younger sisters. I'm the youngest on my family. I have a dog called Spark, he's more like a best friend to me. I go to Westside Highschool and I have two best friends, a girl called Megan and a boy called Eric. 

So I'm only writing this for the sake of one of grandma's last wishes. She passed away two weeks ago, and I really miss her so much. She used to love me so much, from all of her grandchildren she preferred me, and loved me the most. I didn't only know it because it was really obvious, but also because she never missed a chance to tell me. She used to say it a lot, grandma. "You're my favorite grandchild, you know you are Owen." She used to say. It makes me proud, really, to think about it like this. It's good to be someone's favorite, especially your grandmother's. 

When I was little she used to read me stories, and she used to tell me that I had a great imagination. I can draw, but not a lot, and I can write, but I've never seen myself as a writer or an author. 

So back to her wish. 

Three days before she passed away, she came to me, barely able to walk. She couldn't really walk without the walker, and even with it, she mostly fell or couldn't walk for long distances, and by long I mean from the kitchen to the bathroom, and not from Washington to Texas. Hell no, even I can't do that. So she came to me, holding something really huge in her hands, and breathing hard from all of the walking. So when I saw her walking alone and carrying something heavy with her I freaked out. 

"Grandma!" I called as I ran to her. "What are you doing?!" With a very slow motion, she left her finger to her lips and shushed me by that. 

"It's a secret." She said still breathing hard. Since she was really fit and small, I could carry her easily, so I used to carry her a lot, whenever she got tired in the middle of walking and when she wanted to go somewhere but didn't want to use either the walker or the wheelchair. I carried her and put her down on my bed. She rested there for a while, and I waited for her to do, and it took a while. But it's okay, I've always been a patient guy, and especially when it came to my grandma. 

"Listen closely, Owen dear. This is the typewriter I used to write on when I was just a little girl, and you were not even born. I used to write amazing stories, I have to admit. And I believe I read your mother some of them, but not all of them. There are some bunch of papers in the attic that I wrote in each different age, you can read them whenever you like to, but don't let everyone read them, they're private. You can share them with some people if you want, but don't go publishing them all over the - what do you call it?" 

"Uhh, the internet?" I asked helping her. 

"Yes, this thing." She looked at me then with hope filling her eyes, and an innocent smile on her lips. "The thing is, my boy, I want to ask you for a favor." I nodded. 

"Sure gran, ask whatever you want." 

"You're just a little boy, yes, sometimes you act like a man, a great man too, but the fact is, that you're still young. Your life now is very exciting, no matter how dull you find it, or how bad it seems. I want you to write about yourself, and about the things that happen to you. Tell your story to someone, a reader perhaps, anyone. It can help really, and it can make you discover great things about life. And besides, it's really fun. And you have the ability of writing, you have always had it. So what do you say?" She asked. 

I couldn't refuse it, no, I couldn't. No matter how hard I thought it could be, I couldn't refuse. 

"Sure." I said. "And thank you for the typewriter granny. I know how much it means to you, and how important it is."

"Pr-r-r." She stuttered, it was normal for her. "Pr-r-romise." She then managed to say in a whisper. 

"I promise." I said after a while. 


A few days later, she passed away. And so it became like a commitment. I have to write this, and I have to enjoy writing it. I don't know if you'll like what I write, reader, but I'd appreciate it if you listened to me (and by listening I mean reading carefully), not many people listen to me these days.  


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