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A story about an abused girl who escapes the torment of her awful life
Most of my stories i wrote when i was angry and revolve around a common topic they contain true parts of my life in them but obviously i didnt go true to the story but it is about what i wanted to do at the time or was doing
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Just Want To Go Home (Short Stories) story about when i was 16 and ran away to chicago [404 words] [Teenage]
There it is. Dripping from her arms. The release of her secrets, her fears and worries, as she silently pleads for help. However no sound escapes her mouth. Not that she didn’t try to say it, yell it, even scream it. She just couldn’t ask. Couldn’t say it.
Just one easy word.
She wonders how no one noticed, but it just seemed to happen that way. When she wanted to frown it would be replaced by a smile. When she wanted to cry, laughter would come and hide her tears. Either no one saw through it and didn’t give it a second thought, or it was simply that nobody cared, and that thought alone was tearing her apart inside. Nobody cared for her.
She cried only when she was alone, hidden away where no one but her would know. So many had made her cry. Her Mother says she’s a worthless whore, wishes she never had her. Her Father beat her, hurt her, stole her childhood. Her Stepfather hit her, choked her, threatened and yelled, said she was mental. Perhaps she was. Who wouldn’t be with a family like this?
While she was enduring the torment of her own mind the only family she's ever known has forsaken her. She says knows a pattern now and it has proved itself again and again to her. The greater the trust, the greater the betrayal. There it is once more. She spills her Secrets repeatedly. She doesn’t care anymore, nothing matters to her. There’s nothing left in her to care, it has all been taken away, hurt just one too many times.
She wants help, but can’t ask. It easily could make everything worse on her side. Her friends know, but they don’t want to, they look away when they see it, pretending the scars arn’t there. She doesn’t blame anyone only herself. It’s her fault anyway. Her fault she’s sad, her fault she cries, it was her fault she was born and no one else’s.
Nobody can make her do what she does. It’s her hand that holds the blade, wich slices through her skin. Even now, as she pushes it deeper than ever before. Opening herself to the world around her, set on keeping no more secrets, no more pretending to be happy, no more crying. Just wishing for something more.
She stops for a minute hoping that by any miracle somebody would come through the door, tell her not to do it, that she matters to them, that they care, but it never came. Moving the blade to her wrist, she sat there looking at the scars crossing back and forth along her chest, arms, legs, and stomach, that show up so boldly against her skin. All those memories, awful miserable secrets. Not much pain in them, just anguish.
She despises herself so much. Why did she have to be this way? What was wrong with her? What had she done to warrant these things? Didn’t she deserve to be happy? Just one chance, to be like everyone else. She doesn’t want to die, she simply wants to abandone this place and the people who give her these feelings.
She has left before. A few weeks alone, even with nowhere to go, she had never been so blissful, no one there to hurt or judge her. Not a single insult from anyone. But they found her and brought her back. It’s so much worse than before, just because she had gotten a taste of what it was like to be free. To be cheerful is so much better than what she had.
She tried leaving again. But they kept bringing her back, taking her happiness away. Now she’s not allowed out, stuck all day in a house of hell. Told she’s nothing but an awful selfish person for leaving. Nothing left to her name, all she has now are those detestable Secrets. She just wants them gone, to be alone, so she can be happy. She rubs her stomach feeling the lines overlap each other, and changes her mind, for just a second.
Taking the blade from her wrist she thinks. She’s not normal. Just look at what she’s doing, definitely not what people would expect. So why should she do it like everyone would expect. She spreads her legs and looks at her cuts, her secrets. She traces one of many lines with her finger before spreading her left hand over the mid inner thigh of her right leg, and looks at it as well. One of the only clean spots on her body. A very important artery there, the Phemoral artery, one clean cut should do it.
She grabs her knife and wonders if it will hurt. Wonders what it will be like, to be alone again? She doesn’t believe in any gods. If a god does exist it must hate her. So maybe it would all just be over, or perhaps it would be like falling into the soothingly sweet caress that sleep brings, but for eternity. Nice Quiet Peaceful
All alone in her dreams, happy. Oh, how the thought of freedom, and of happiness mesmerized her. Her hand spread open on her inner thigh she presses the tip of the blade next to her finger, as the pauses and holds her breath. Then abruptly she pushes down, hard, wincing as the blade rips through her skin and easily slices the flesh up to her thumb. Sitting there on her bed, leg throbbing, she watches silently as the blood began to stain her black covers.
She pulls her knees up to her chest, her head between her legs, her arms wrapped around them. There she sat in the fetal position, watching her blood flow from her, as tears dropped from her cheeks into the pooling substance. She wondered why she was crying really.
Was it from the immense pain coming from her leg? Or was it the fact that she had made her decision, and these were the last moments she would ever have. That she would never get another chance at life. That it was all over, and she would never see anything she loved again. Or was it that she was finally going to get out, to be free. After all this time, she’s so close now.
Dizzy she fell to her side, laying on the bed. Her vision blurred and she closed her eyes. And even through the pain her body went numb. Laying there in the sticky red fluid and pulling her cover over her, she quietly fell asleep. And she never woke up. There she lay as her last.
Later that day her Mother came home calling out her name. When she did not answer the Mother went into her room, yelling at her to get her lazy ass out of bed. Assuming she was sleeping the Mother yanked the cover off her and stared in utter shock gaping at what she saw.
There she saw her daughter. Curled up in bed, nude, and covered in blood. Seeing her for the last time the same as the first. Just a tiny baby covered in blood, crying. Innocent, full of life. But now not a sound escapes her lips and never again will she laugh or cry.
Once so full of life, and now she’s dead, but at least she’s finally free. No more pain for her.
The end is the same as the beginning, the beginning the same as the end.
The cycle only continues if one does not break it.
It’s the balance of nature.
A good person like the girl in the story
Surrounded by the opposite of who they are
Such as an awful person always seems to have good things
The Balance of Nature
Good & Evil
Must be the only reason these events occur
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© 2011 Autumn Eve
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