Behind The Grey Stained Windows

It was cold today, the breeze heavier and chillier than I had expected. I clenched my fists to keep them warm, shoving them into the pockets of my hooded sweater. My eyes drifted from ground level to the level of the house
(disappointed?)
(excited?)
(terrified?)
(uninterested?)
at the time it would take me to reach that point. I decided to suck in the feelings of
(happiness?)
(sadness?)
(confusion?)
and clear my mind. After all, I am just returning to get my bag back. That's all I'm doing.
Besides, the only obstacles I need to complete to arrive there is just the cemetery and the large (creepy?) hill. I gulped in the thought.
The cemetery gates were tall and creaked as I slid through them, rust spreading aimlessly across my hoodie like a disease. The floor beneath me was soggy and disgusting, making small sounds like a sponge. I ignored the sounds, crossing the tombstones and unmarked graves.
(Glad?) that's over. My feet lazily climbed up the hill, the atmosphere thinning at every step. Eventually, hours had passed and I found myself a few meters away from the doorstep.
My bag was gone. I searched helplessly through the bushes, and with no luck, found none.
"What the..." I bit my lip slightly.
I trotted along the path, and around the house. Why did I come here? (The shadow?) (My bag, of course)
After a couple minutes of searching, I began to walk around the perimeter of the house. Maybe the (bird?) (shadow?) (someone?) (something?) carried it back here. Sadly, I found nothing. I spotted a couple (holes?) in the ground, and they were strangely six foot wide, every one of them.
My surroundings had started to (scare?) (interest?) (intrigue?) me, so I knew it was best that I left. I turned back to the steps, and gazed almost stupidly at where I was sitting. My bag was there. I grabbed it quickly and ran towards the bottom of the hill, darting through the cemetery faster than a bullet.
As I arrived to the bottom, I opened my bag to examine the contents. Everything was neat and in place, and it almost seemed usual. My suspicions had lessened until I lifted the bag to smell it. The bag usually smelled of dust and water, but today was different.
I couldn't quite put my finger on what it smelled like.
I searched inside it to see if my song notebook was okay. I used it since I was in middle school, and wrote down every negative feeling I had, and every positive one too.

The twenty sixth page was among the most memorable. Blood had gotten in the way of everything, it ruined me. My friends had disliked me, my grades were failing, my enemies had gotten the best of it. And so, I wrote that I hated my life. It (was?)(is?) true.

The red ink was still fresh. "I hate my life" was written in clear cursive letters. Terrible scribbled letters were in black parallel from the sentence. "If you look in the mirror and don't like what you see, you can find out firsthand what it's like to be me".

At that moment, I recognized the smell on my bag. Roasted coffee.

Notes

new chapter c: