Jarrk
10-10-2009, 06:56 AM
Hi there, all!
As mentioned, this is my first Short Story posted here. All criticism, feedback and thoughts are greatly appreciated.
Thanks,
Jack.
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Broken
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Broken dreams. Broken hearts. Broken souls.
Past my eyes the remnants of former lives sprawl etched into the underside of the subway, lost and forgotten to all but those who once cared.
The telling vibration of laughter draws my thoughts from the walls beyond the window back to the present. Every fibre in my body ached.
How long had it been since I’d laughed?
My glance meets the source of my agony – a teenager of about my age; badly-gelled hair; lip studs; voracious acne.
I’d seen this type before.
My head met the glass at the sensation of a cold hand.
Once again, I felt laughter ricocheting from the glass.
Raising my head, I meet the assaulter’s eyes with pain.
His lips form words that I can barely make out.
Why don’t you speak to us, buddy?
With a ringed finger, he jabs me in the ribs.
Not going to talk, hey? Why don’t ya tell us where you got them lovely scars on ya ears and ‘round ya neck?
His mouth opens uglily, rounding into a laugh.
I continue to stare, hardening my expression warily.
Slowly, his face re-arranged itself. With a cold look, he slid his other hand from beneath the seat, drawing from beneath it a pocket knife.
As it glinted beneath the dim overhead lighting, my vision distorted.
I feel the unforgiving vice of the metal against my throat as my mind engulfs itself, as it had done so many times before.
Steam churns over my head, rising in blackened wisps to the ceiling. The smell of overcooked meat fills my nostrils.
I cry out loudly without knowing why.
“Will you shut up!”
My mother stands at the stove, her perfectly manicured face twisted with rage. I see her meticulously pencilled and lashed eyes pour over me with hatred.
“I toil day and night in the household for you, you little monster!”
At once she turns back to her cooking, swearing audibly at the flames that now leapt from the pan.
I feel myself cry out again loudly, fat tears rolling down my cheeks.
As a loud bang echoes from the pan, something changes. My mother stops moving, standing shakily on the spot.
I hear the slide of a knife being released from its block, and she turns slowly.
Without a sound, she kneels to the ground beside me, placing a hand on my cheek.
"Hey,” she whispers softly.
Raising her other hand to my face, the point of the kitchen knife’s blade touches at my throat.
“Let’s do something about that crying, shall we little one?”
As I feel the hollow emptiness of a scream leaving my throat, I’m torn from my haunted memories.
The boy is gone.
I’m all alone.
As the warmth of fresh tears stream down my face, the feeling of noise that I cannot hear leaves my mouth shakily.
We are the deaf; the mute.
We are the broken dreams, hearts and souls, etched into the underside of the subway, lost and forgotten by those who once cared.
As mentioned, this is my first Short Story posted here. All criticism, feedback and thoughts are greatly appreciated.
Thanks,
Jack.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Broken
---------
Broken dreams. Broken hearts. Broken souls.
Past my eyes the remnants of former lives sprawl etched into the underside of the subway, lost and forgotten to all but those who once cared.
The telling vibration of laughter draws my thoughts from the walls beyond the window back to the present. Every fibre in my body ached.
How long had it been since I’d laughed?
My glance meets the source of my agony – a teenager of about my age; badly-gelled hair; lip studs; voracious acne.
I’d seen this type before.
My head met the glass at the sensation of a cold hand.
Once again, I felt laughter ricocheting from the glass.
Raising my head, I meet the assaulter’s eyes with pain.
His lips form words that I can barely make out.
Why don’t you speak to us, buddy?
With a ringed finger, he jabs me in the ribs.
Not going to talk, hey? Why don’t ya tell us where you got them lovely scars on ya ears and ‘round ya neck?
His mouth opens uglily, rounding into a laugh.
I continue to stare, hardening my expression warily.
Slowly, his face re-arranged itself. With a cold look, he slid his other hand from beneath the seat, drawing from beneath it a pocket knife.
As it glinted beneath the dim overhead lighting, my vision distorted.
I feel the unforgiving vice of the metal against my throat as my mind engulfs itself, as it had done so many times before.
Steam churns over my head, rising in blackened wisps to the ceiling. The smell of overcooked meat fills my nostrils.
I cry out loudly without knowing why.
“Will you shut up!”
My mother stands at the stove, her perfectly manicured face twisted with rage. I see her meticulously pencilled and lashed eyes pour over me with hatred.
“I toil day and night in the household for you, you little monster!”
At once she turns back to her cooking, swearing audibly at the flames that now leapt from the pan.
I feel myself cry out again loudly, fat tears rolling down my cheeks.
As a loud bang echoes from the pan, something changes. My mother stops moving, standing shakily on the spot.
I hear the slide of a knife being released from its block, and she turns slowly.
Without a sound, she kneels to the ground beside me, placing a hand on my cheek.
"Hey,” she whispers softly.
Raising her other hand to my face, the point of the kitchen knife’s blade touches at my throat.
“Let’s do something about that crying, shall we little one?”
As I feel the hollow emptiness of a scream leaving my throat, I’m torn from my haunted memories.
The boy is gone.
I’m all alone.
As the warmth of fresh tears stream down my face, the feeling of noise that I cannot hear leaves my mouth shakily.
We are the deaf; the mute.
We are the broken dreams, hearts and souls, etched into the underside of the subway, lost and forgotten by those who once cared.