Never told anyone specifically about this. But, when I was young, I wrote proud compositions of fantasy and mystery, because there were no rules, were there. I'm still keeping them in my side study drawer if you want to have a look. My teacher says "good but very weird" - for an 11-year-old, I guess.
Like I said, I never tell this to anyone. But sometimes, I wonder if the child in you can write your life out before you live it.
Self-fulfilling prophecy? Perhaps.
The story tells of this young boy who couldn't stop washing his hands.
Everywhere he went, he was afraid of dirt and the germs that wrapped themselves around his body. He needed to be clean, without blemish, always. So he washed, and washed, and washed himself all his life.
At 31 or 32, or 36 (my memory!), he died.
It was skin cancer.
The End.
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