Image courtesy of Unsplash

Why Should I Still Write?

What you’re reading right now is what I’m writing. And what I’m writing is nonsense. Whenever I want to start something the words of the world encapsulate me in their ever drowning ways and I never seem to get anywhere.The drive to just sit down and write five pages of a novel is essentially nothing. I’ve tried white paper, pink paper, typewriters, computers, and even wrote on a whiteboard. The hours I sat there and let the tears fall with no emotion on my face really proved what my life had become for the last five years. The longest five years. And the first five years without my father. I wanted to write because of him. Well, I guess I tried to write for him. He always gushed about my writing to his rich friends that always promised to sign and promote me one day when my novel was done. But, that novel was never finished. It sits with two unfinished pages that I always wanted my dad to write. However, since my dad passed away there was no perfect “end” to my book. The pages remained blank with tear marks to display the story I never did. 

Image courtesy of Unsplash

Why Should I Ever Doubt Myself?

I never meant to kill him..I think. To be honest, I don’t know and I don’t care. If we’re all being honest here, he deserved to be killed after what he did to my sister. The years she endured with him had to be the most traumatic years of her life, both emotionally and physically. He ripped the diaries she wrote about how awful he was, he never made her food dand didn’t allow her to eat unless she had served and done everything he had asked to first, and most importantly, he never once forgot to threaten her. The death threats, or my favorite, the threats to kill me. ME! Me of all people. I truly thought that was ridiculous. Shouldn’t you focus on my sister and realizing your actions are beyond inhuman? Whatever his thought process was behind his threats and relationship was complete nonsense to me, so why should I wait for him to keep hurting her? As his warm blood dripped down my hand, I hoped he knew now and forever that I will always come out on top.

Image courtesy of Pexels

How Long Was I Never the “One”?

I always longed for him. The soft brown curls that surrounded his masculine head. The smile that nearly everyone fell for. And my personal favorite part, his ability to always work and talk with others. To say he is popular would be slightly over exaggerating. He was defintitely knwon, but not crazy popular – another aspect I like about him. He always passed me in the halls and smiled at me with a slight wave that I would think about all day. I would purposely walk slowly for a long time to watch as he approached me and walked away. The chase was there, yet soft and gentle. I never looked around me when walking in the hallways until one day he walked up closer and closer to me. Each step produced five of my heartbeats that were nearly coming out of my chest. He got closer and closer, and suddenly, his wind passed me. His cologne brisked my nose and I waited for him to stop – but he didn’t. He kept walking. And as if my mind deceived me, he walked until he reached one of my old friends. Admittedly, I watched them talk for a while, the small and comfortable talk they had with one another, the small touches he gave to her hand, and finally the small wave and smile I always waited for at the end of class. In that moment I realized one thing: I was always the other girl. 

Image courtesy of Unsplash

Wasn’t She Supposed to Keep Me Safe?

I watched the cars drive by like I had for the past four years. First the black Nissan Altima and then the small Red Bug that always zoomed by. I watched them and traced them with my eyes as they drove away. I was truly envious of the cars. They could leave but I couldn’t. Mama told me I was paralyzed and plagued with so many diseases that I would never find happiness or love. She told me that all the donations that were given to me by the county and surrounding states were all because they pitied me. Not one person she stated found interest in me or my life story. The pill bottles lined the cabinets like school children waiting in line for the bus. These same pills found their way inside my body everytime Mama came around. She watched me swallow them and because of my “throat problems” I could never make myself throw them back up. But all I wanted to do was throw them up. To throw everything back into her face for making everything a lie. Listening to her talk on the phone with the doctor yesterday about my “symptoms” made everything quikcly dawn on me that it was all a lie. Nothing was real this whole time. The medicine for my countless diseases and illnesses, my bald head, and even the scarf that always had to be around me so I wouldn’t get too cold and start to ache in pain. I didn’t have any illnesses – Nothing was wrong with me. But everything was wrong with her. 

Image courtesy of Freepik

What Lines Do We Color Now?

I was always told to color in the lines. When I was two years old I received my first and only coloring book. The one my mom told me was special because it was the only one we could afford. Whatever that meant. I scribbled then, wildly with my three crayons that I had from the restaurant we had gone to the same day we bought the coloring book. They were now just little “nubs” as my mom called them. The green and red had no wrapping left, but the blue one had the perfect amount so I could grab it just right. But, suddenly as if it were a great emergency, my mom packed everything at night and said we had to go. I fell asleep despite her frantic state and stayed asleep until 9 am that next morning. I tossed and turned until I felt the urge for cheerios. I yelled for my moms name, with no response, while I searched for my cheerios. But, when I looked around, everything was empty. The playroom is no longer filled with my drawings. The coloring book no longer sat on my coloring tabe. And everything  plain…except for my blue crayon. I grabbed it quickly and put  it in my pocket while I looked for my mom. I searched up, down and all around wherever I could reach. Without my mom in sight, I saw the door lying open with an ice cream truck out front. But unlike all the other ones I had seen, this one was no longer playing music. It sat in a somber silence that made it seem lonely. I grabbed my blue crayon tightly in hand and marched up to the car to color in the little ice cream options that lined the side of the truck. I began to precisely color everything in until suddenly there was no more blue. It was black. Everything was black. Pure silence surrounded me, and unknown things covered my body. My eyes. My mouth. My arms. My ankles. Everything was covered and soon, I knew this was no ice cream truck and I wasn’t going to go home any time soon.