what hurts? and why does it matter? (kneedles)
Aug 2, 2012 15:26:44 GMT -5
Post by I'm Known As Eliza on Aug 2, 2012 15:26:44 GMT -5
MISTLETOE HYLAND
THE GIRL WHO SUFFERS
~Six Letters, Two Words, Easy To Say, Hard To Explain, Harder To Do: Move On~
I can't help my tears, but when they come, I get punished. A stream of slaps, verbal abuse, and emotional scarring comes from one punch from my abuser, but tears bring a whole new kind of pain. I feel the pain, and it kills me inside. I've suffered through too much already, but my abuser refueses to stop. And I let him continue.
Stepping out into the sunshine feels like a hot dagger pierces my skull. I try to block the pain, but my barriers have crumbled. The heat sends a shock through my body, and many people stare at my reaction, muttering to themselves. I ignore it. Or rather, I don't notice it. Having not stepped out into the rays of crisp clean sunlight has given me a pale palor. I don't mind, considering I'm covered in dirt anyway. You would think people would notice a damaged girl that comes from the same house every day, followed by the screams of a grown man shouting after her to pick up her ass and walk. And people do. Sometimes. Sometimes they turn a blind eye. Sometimes I get pennies from people thinking that I'm a beggar. Sometimes I get mocked and laughed at. All part of beng me I guess.
The dirt on my body. I'm used to it. I'm used to the feeling of mucky blonde hair, so messed up that it has turned brown, cover my shoulder. I'm used to the mud that covers my body, causing me to chill at night from the air that flows through the cracks in my window. I'm used to the disgusting nails, the cracked lips, the scarred face. But sometimes I need to rinse off. And sometimes I get to. But it's no use. So I walk out that morning, my dirt covering my body, my clothes on my back, and I stumble to the market. Grabbing the items I need. Paying for the alcohol, from the man who turns his head at an underage girl buying drinks. I buy bandages from the man who sells those as well, not for me, but for when my abuser cuts his hand on a broken beer bottle. I stumble out of there as quickly as I came.
But suddenly, I'm falling, and my face hits the pavement. I can't help the blood that flows from my nose, and I can't help the tears that fall from my eyes, but they do. And somehow, seeing my own blood unhinges me. It causes me to crawl into the closest alley, leaving a trail of tears and dirt and blood, and cry my heart out. But even crying has no effect. So I cry until I'm numb from pain and my eyes are puffy, like they are often, and I sit, wanting to die. I wait for the angels to come from the sky and I wait for them to claim me. But they don't.
My wishes don't usually come true anyway. [/center]
