Otis Castillo {D7} done

Dark hair surrounds my face. When I was younger my hair used to be much darker, a darker that was evident of the lack of sunlight that it had been revealed to. But today, today it was a lighter colour, a colour that revealed that this girl, that I, now spent a lot of time in the sunshine. I fell past my shoulder and down to about the midpoint of my back. Usually it is quite messy and unkept, I don’t really have time to keep it brushed and kept back- there are other things that I find are much higher up on my list of priorities (like sunlight, and freedom and happiness). Skin that used to be as pale as a ghost was now slightly tanned, slightly tinted- another factor that revealed the girls love of the sun. Scars littered my skin, lighter streaks of skin. Some had gruesome ragged edges, other had smooth edges, and other were still a light pink, never to fade away. Some were large- one started at my elbow and trail down to the edge of my palm. I remember the time I got that scar, rather clearly. It is something that I try to forget, but just like other bad memories it insists on staying in a easy to reach place.

But my body was not all ragged and harsh, no. There were some softer, more attractive parts. I am a slender girl- a bit to slender- my bones are visible under my skin, a clear sign that I don’t eat enough… but that life and the way my bones protrude now is much less than when I was younger and lived of nothing but the scraps that my father decided that I deserved. But the best feature of my appearance would be my eyes. I have always been told that my eyes are like the starts, bright and welcoming, warm and friendly. They are a dark brown- honey flecks are dashed here and there making them slightly unique. My smile, also, has been told to lighten the days of strangers. For a very long time I had thought that I had lost my smile, that it would never come out- not after the childhood that I gone through… but after a while, after a few years of being free my smile came and ever since I have had a hard time ripping it off my face.

Violence. Ever since I was a child violence has been a major factor of my life. When I was a child every day I would be bashed until I was knocked unconscious, until I was thrusted into a dreamless sleep where the pain was numbed- but only for a little while. Violence has been engraved into my mind as something that I should fear, as something that I should run away from- and I do. I fear violence, wait fear may be an understatement, I am terrified of violence, terrified of its outcomes- of its consequences. Usually if a child has grown up with violence, then violence is their vocabulary, they no nothing else expect slicing and dicing and causing hurt and pain. But I didn’t want to be that person, I wanted nothing less than to see someone cringe away from me… I had done enough of that, seen what it turns people into… never, never would I wish myself to become that person, that person who uses violence to get there way.

Thus I use words to protect myself. If I feel like I am in danger I will throw insults out left right and centre. Yes they hurt- know that they hurt. But in a way they hurt less than physical attacks. Well that how I view it anyways. “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never harm me.” Whenever I am using my words as a protective shield I think If this and instantly I feel a bit better. A person can ignore words; they can manipulate them so that they sound less harsh, or shape them so that they twist the meaning that one intended. But actual physical blows? They leave a mark, one that cannot just disappear at a quick thought. They are like a tattoo in a way, something that is sketched permanently into ones kin. I know for sure that I have a lot of ‘tattoos’ to prove that words have not broken me, but physical abuse has.

But in saying this, my brother Cyrus, is someone that I will go to any measures to protect- even violence if it comes down to it. For twelve years of his 15 years of living he has been locked away from the world, known nothing apart from the abusive hand of our father. When we were locked away, I always tried to be the one who took the worst, always begging my father to leave Cyrus alone, always begging, pleading with him to take his anger out on me. Most the time I didn’t know if I had been successful or not, most time I am knocked out before he leaves… but now out here, free, I still do everything in my power to make sure that he is happy, to make sure that he will never ever have to go back to that place again.