Short narrative fiction

I am unraveling the seventh piece of crumpled paper. I think I will use this one. It is getting dark and I am mentally exhausted from rewriting this letter over and over again. Whatever I wrote in this last one will have to do.

I am taking too long to read it. The tremor in my right hand is back, so I can’t stay still long enough to read the words.

I think I have forgotten how to read.

I envy the silence in my bedroom, oh, it is just deafening. Instead of quiet, the first sentence on the page is screaming out, begging to be free.

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