brickchick1
04-13-2015, 01:41 AM
Bruises lay like a tattered battlefield, random, yet uncalled for. Physical damage that heals and is replaced. Both will still bear a reminder of what caused pain and who to associate it with. I quickly turned away from the mirror. Even though the worst memories of my life were flooding back to me, not a single tear left my eye. I had stopped crying a long time ago.
Instead of looking at my scars, I looked around my old room. The once properly made bed lay tattered in the corner. It curled itself into the wall, reminding me of how small the metal frame really was. I used to curl up on it and cry. The last time I ever cried I was under that quilt. Unconsciously, I shook my head, trying to throw that memory back into the depths from which it came. I had so many terrible memories. I wished I could destroy them and forget them once and for all. But I knew I couldn’t keep fighting them off forever. I slowly turned in a circle, letting the memories come.
This room was a black hole, sucking me into its darkness. The only nice thing I had ever owned, my desk, was tucked under my small window and caked in an inch of dust. My mother has brought that desk home the day before she left. When she set the package down in my room with a soft smile, my daddy scowled. He slapped my mom in the face and yelled something about money. I started to cry, but my mom knew just what to do. She blew me a kiss, like she always did, and lead my still furious daddy downstairs. I set up the desk myself and simply sat in the chair, smelling the scent of something new. Now it smelled of dirt and grime. My closet had no door, because my daddy didn’t approve when I hid behind it. My wallpaper was covered in chips and scratches, because I would mindlessly pick at it when I was depressed. And the worst of all, the filthy brown carpet dotted with a furious pattern of blood stains.
I will never forget the first day my daddy made me bleed. I was up in my room, sitting on my desk chair. My daddy never gave me paper or pencils, but I enjoyed sitting there anyways. It reminded me of mom. It had been about a month since she left, and my daddy had never gone further than a slap in the face and an earful of cruel words, but today he was angrier than usual. He stormed upstairs and into my room and saw me sitting at the clean, white desk. The desk that had ruined it all for him. He yelled at me and approached. I expected a slap, so I cringed, but instead I felt hand grip my hair at the top of my head. The next thing I knew, he smashed my head down onto my clean, white desk. It wasn’t clean and white anymore.
My vision blurred and my breath shook dangerously from the memory. I felt like a child lost in a store. I laughed at myself in a disgusted manor. I didn’t even know why I had come back here. Closure I suppose? Suddenly, another memory resurfaced. A treasure I had left behind a long time ago. I kneeled to the floor beside my desk. My face brushed the carpet that had recalled such horrors from my past and I withheld a shudder. I reached blindly into the crevice beneath my desk, not sure what I wanted to find. My fingers stopped abruptly. They had hit the binding of a book. With a deep breath, I pulled it out slowly. After all these years, it was still there.
My sketchbook.
I examined the tattered binding closely. It hadn’t moved from under the desk, even after a decade. Even though every fiber of my being told me not to open it, not to relive the pain, I ignored the thoughts. Painstakingly, slowly, I opened to the first page. The first drawing was of my mother. I had started the sketchbook about two weeks after my mom left. Since my daddy said she was gone forever, and we had never been able to afford pictures, I was terrified that I would forget her amazing details. Her kind eyes and gentle smile. Her beautiful façade as she struggled through the pain. I had captured memory. My favorite memory. My eighth birthday. You could vaguely see other people in the background, but it was really just of her. Because she was my whole world. Her smile was huge and full of joy. She never smiled like that again. It was the very last time.
The next drawing was another memory. This time, however, the saddest memory I could possibly recall was sitting before me in great detail. Sure, I have painful memories. But nothing compared to the pain I felt on this day; the day it all started. I had captured the image of the day she left me. She lifted a backpack to her shoulders, blew me a kiss like she always did, and left. Just…left. I’d felt alone. Afraid. Abused, even though all she has done was walk out a door. Her leaving just broke something inside me that could never be repaired. It was worse than if she had died. My daddy had been furious. That was the first day he hit me. Told me it was my fault she left.
My eyes shut, willing me not to continue. I turned the page like something possessed. It was me. My self-portrait. I had drawn in every bruise, outlined every scar. I had poured my loneliness into the very ink of the picture. You could see my pain, my suffering, and my sadness. I looked into the eyes of the younger me and saw my past. I slammed the book shut abruptly. In shock, I reached up to my eyes. My finger came away glistening.
A single tear.
Suddenly, without my doing, I was walking out the front door. I mindlessly put one foot in front of the other down the dirty cobblestone path. I climbed into the passenger side of the car out front.
“Did you find what you were looking for?’ my fiancé asked. I turned to him and smiled.
“Yeah. Yeah, I think I did.”
Thanks for reading guys! My name is Natalie and I am 15. I am hoping to enter this story in a contest, but I wanted some opinions first. I would really appreciate some feedback!
Instead of looking at my scars, I looked around my old room. The once properly made bed lay tattered in the corner. It curled itself into the wall, reminding me of how small the metal frame really was. I used to curl up on it and cry. The last time I ever cried I was under that quilt. Unconsciously, I shook my head, trying to throw that memory back into the depths from which it came. I had so many terrible memories. I wished I could destroy them and forget them once and for all. But I knew I couldn’t keep fighting them off forever. I slowly turned in a circle, letting the memories come.
This room was a black hole, sucking me into its darkness. The only nice thing I had ever owned, my desk, was tucked under my small window and caked in an inch of dust. My mother has brought that desk home the day before she left. When she set the package down in my room with a soft smile, my daddy scowled. He slapped my mom in the face and yelled something about money. I started to cry, but my mom knew just what to do. She blew me a kiss, like she always did, and lead my still furious daddy downstairs. I set up the desk myself and simply sat in the chair, smelling the scent of something new. Now it smelled of dirt and grime. My closet had no door, because my daddy didn’t approve when I hid behind it. My wallpaper was covered in chips and scratches, because I would mindlessly pick at it when I was depressed. And the worst of all, the filthy brown carpet dotted with a furious pattern of blood stains.
I will never forget the first day my daddy made me bleed. I was up in my room, sitting on my desk chair. My daddy never gave me paper or pencils, but I enjoyed sitting there anyways. It reminded me of mom. It had been about a month since she left, and my daddy had never gone further than a slap in the face and an earful of cruel words, but today he was angrier than usual. He stormed upstairs and into my room and saw me sitting at the clean, white desk. The desk that had ruined it all for him. He yelled at me and approached. I expected a slap, so I cringed, but instead I felt hand grip my hair at the top of my head. The next thing I knew, he smashed my head down onto my clean, white desk. It wasn’t clean and white anymore.
My vision blurred and my breath shook dangerously from the memory. I felt like a child lost in a store. I laughed at myself in a disgusted manor. I didn’t even know why I had come back here. Closure I suppose? Suddenly, another memory resurfaced. A treasure I had left behind a long time ago. I kneeled to the floor beside my desk. My face brushed the carpet that had recalled such horrors from my past and I withheld a shudder. I reached blindly into the crevice beneath my desk, not sure what I wanted to find. My fingers stopped abruptly. They had hit the binding of a book. With a deep breath, I pulled it out slowly. After all these years, it was still there.
My sketchbook.
I examined the tattered binding closely. It hadn’t moved from under the desk, even after a decade. Even though every fiber of my being told me not to open it, not to relive the pain, I ignored the thoughts. Painstakingly, slowly, I opened to the first page. The first drawing was of my mother. I had started the sketchbook about two weeks after my mom left. Since my daddy said she was gone forever, and we had never been able to afford pictures, I was terrified that I would forget her amazing details. Her kind eyes and gentle smile. Her beautiful façade as she struggled through the pain. I had captured memory. My favorite memory. My eighth birthday. You could vaguely see other people in the background, but it was really just of her. Because she was my whole world. Her smile was huge and full of joy. She never smiled like that again. It was the very last time.
The next drawing was another memory. This time, however, the saddest memory I could possibly recall was sitting before me in great detail. Sure, I have painful memories. But nothing compared to the pain I felt on this day; the day it all started. I had captured the image of the day she left me. She lifted a backpack to her shoulders, blew me a kiss like she always did, and left. Just…left. I’d felt alone. Afraid. Abused, even though all she has done was walk out a door. Her leaving just broke something inside me that could never be repaired. It was worse than if she had died. My daddy had been furious. That was the first day he hit me. Told me it was my fault she left.
My eyes shut, willing me not to continue. I turned the page like something possessed. It was me. My self-portrait. I had drawn in every bruise, outlined every scar. I had poured my loneliness into the very ink of the picture. You could see my pain, my suffering, and my sadness. I looked into the eyes of the younger me and saw my past. I slammed the book shut abruptly. In shock, I reached up to my eyes. My finger came away glistening.
A single tear.
Suddenly, without my doing, I was walking out the front door. I mindlessly put one foot in front of the other down the dirty cobblestone path. I climbed into the passenger side of the car out front.
“Did you find what you were looking for?’ my fiancé asked. I turned to him and smiled.
“Yeah. Yeah, I think I did.”
Thanks for reading guys! My name is Natalie and I am 15. I am hoping to enter this story in a contest, but I wanted some opinions first. I would really appreciate some feedback!