Saturday, 6 November 2010


The doorbell rang. She cringed and glanced at the clock. 10:00. The numbers glared at her. Pulling the over-sized hoodie sleeves over her hands, she chewed on the frayed edges, contemplating whether or not to answer the door. She pulled her legs, drowning in her father's sweatpants, to her chin, biting her lip nervously. She was alone. 

She hated being alone. She hated talking to people. She wanted them around her, like a wall, but she didn't want to speak with them. She just wanted to be invisible; to hide behind a shield. The doorbell rang again. She gnawed at her thumbnail. Her mom may have forgotten her key. Her lip quivered. She didn't want to open the door. She didn't want to be afraid. 

The doorbell rang again. She covered her ears and fled up the stairs, to the safety of her room; the safety of her bed covers. The melody echoed in her ears and tears began to fall. She clutched her cell phone, her fingernails digging into the touchscreen, ready to dial at a moment's notice. She waited; she held her breath. She waited for the sound of the door crashing down. Hot tears fell onto the sheets. 

She was tired of the pain. She was tired of the memory. She was tired of the fear. It raged through her. It reigned inside of her. The memories haunted her. She went days without sleep, drinking energy drink after energy drink; swallowing caffeine tablets. Anything to stay awake. Anything to escape the nightmares. No good. Nothing saved her. Even her daydreams haunted her; tormented her. They taunted her. 

She withdrew. Threw her makeup away. Tossed her jewelry. Burned her beautiful clothing. All the skirts. All the low-cut tops. Poured her perfume down the sink. Ditched her nailpolish onto the street. She broke down. She cried. She hid. She cut herself bangs. She hid her eyes. Chopped the rest of her hair. Butchy. Ugly. She clawed at her skin. Bruised. Beaten. 

She let her skin reflect the scarred interior. The traumatized soul. She hid the window to her broken inside. She let no one in. She feared that her eyes reflected what constantly played before her, without release, for the past months. The face. The ugly face. The touch. The disgusting touch. The smell. The hands. The sweat. The pain. 

The helplessness. 

She hid, ashamed. She picked the blade up once more and shoved the baggy sleeves up. She wouldn't rest until her body was as battered as her soul. 

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