Last writes

© Darkwing Imaginings

Writing her secrets was not something she had ever really wanted to do, yet Jenna felt compelled to do so now. This could be the last day of her life and and there were things that she wanted others to know, secrets that would explain much about why she was the way she was.

She reached into her bag to find the notebook and pen she always carried. It was difficult. The train had been travelling quite fast before the crash, and much of the carriage concertina-ed in around her. She was surprised that she had survived this long. She couldn't feel her legs, and her stomach felt as though she'd eaten a brick. But the upper half of her seemed fine … so far.

She could see her open bag and managed to wriggle her hand inside. The notebook seemed to have been pushed to the bottom and she was having trouble reaching it. If only she could … a sharp pain shot through her body and she yelped. Damn it!

A low moaning floated out from somewhere to the right of her.

"Hello? Hello? Can you hear me?"

She thought she heard another moan.

"Hello?"

Nothing. Well, if there was someone there, they must have passed out. At least, that is what Jenna chose to believe.

Jenna reached into her bag again, scrabbling in quiet desperation for the familiar leather notebook. She felt the smoothness of it against her fingertips and clutched it. Slowly, carefully, she pulled it out. There it was, pen in its holder, ready for her to write.

She opened up the notebook, carefully extracted the pen, and began to write.

Inspired by a prompt from Cynthia Morris in her quarterly Free Write Fling.