Nobody was home. Salty droplets of tears carrying flakes of mascara in them trickled steadily down her already slick cheeks. Her bedraggled bun loosened itself further with every bang of her head against the wall.
Hiccoughing, she pulled a little razor blade from under her mattress and fumbled with it as she pushed up her sleeve, exposing an underarm slashed with ugly scars. Some were faded and greyish purple. Some were fresh, swollen, and pink. A couple were still bleeding--tiny pinprick-sized drops of ruby-red liquid. There were so many that altogether, only about a square centimetre of pale, unmarred skin showed through.
With a small, shivering sob, she slowly drew the blade across her skin, almost reopening a healing scar in the process. She watched without emotion as blood oozed up from the wound, chest rising sharply in tremors as an aftereffect of crying.
After a minute or two, she got up and stowed the razor blade away under her mattress, seating herself at her desk in front of the pile of overdue homework. A few hours later, her parents returned home to find their daughter tucked in bed and sleeping dreamlessly as usual.
It was just a regular Tuesday evening.
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Friday 28 June 2013
Saturday 22 June 2013
Stretched
"Here you go, Miss," the young lady said with a gentle smile as she set a steaming chipped ceramic bowl down on the small wooden table beside me.
Not having the energy to thank her with words, I smiled weakly back instead as I gratefully took the spoon and dipped it into the hot soup.
How had I ended up here, clean and wrapped in a worn blanket on a ratty sofa, clad with nothing but a woolly jumper and thick, hand-knitted socks by the fireplace, with a girl serving me hot soup with bread?
My mind flashed back to the sewers, lying still as a stone against the unpleasantly slimy brickwork while dirty rats and God knows what else scampered with their sharp-clawed feet over me, sometimes pausing to nip at my already ragged clothes, waiting for my pursuers to pass over my hiding place. To almost being buried alive. I could still feel traces of the horrible panic that had clouded my mind and nearly prevented me from escaping with my life. To having to turn my back on the dead body of my best friend, most loyal ally, and childhood love, sprawled in a tangle of limbs all lying in the wrong angle over the bloodstained dirt.
I choked back a pained sob. The girl glanced at me with a look of concern on her face before at last turning and leaving the room. I closed my eyes and nuzzled my face into the fuzzy material of the blanket, which absorbed what tears leaked out of my tired eyes. No, I didn't want to remember those things. I wasn't ready to face them, the memories I was locking away into a part of my mind I wouldn't touch for a long, long time.
I don't think I'll ever be ready.
http://creativewriting.ie/writing-prompts/
Not having the energy to thank her with words, I smiled weakly back instead as I gratefully took the spoon and dipped it into the hot soup.
How had I ended up here, clean and wrapped in a worn blanket on a ratty sofa, clad with nothing but a woolly jumper and thick, hand-knitted socks by the fireplace, with a girl serving me hot soup with bread?
My mind flashed back to the sewers, lying still as a stone against the unpleasantly slimy brickwork while dirty rats and God knows what else scampered with their sharp-clawed feet over me, sometimes pausing to nip at my already ragged clothes, waiting for my pursuers to pass over my hiding place. To almost being buried alive. I could still feel traces of the horrible panic that had clouded my mind and nearly prevented me from escaping with my life. To having to turn my back on the dead body of my best friend, most loyal ally, and childhood love, sprawled in a tangle of limbs all lying in the wrong angle over the bloodstained dirt.
I choked back a pained sob. The girl glanced at me with a look of concern on her face before at last turning and leaving the room. I closed my eyes and nuzzled my face into the fuzzy material of the blanket, which absorbed what tears leaked out of my tired eyes. No, I didn't want to remember those things. I wasn't ready to face them, the memories I was locking away into a part of my mind I wouldn't touch for a long, long time.
I don't think I'll ever be ready.
http://creativewriting.ie/writing-prompts/
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