The Words Can't Come To Mind, chapter 1
Another sleepless night. Again, when I try falling asleep, I can't. I stay up for hours. But mostly all night. It gets to me. I mean, having to go to school, without sleep. It makes the hell worse. I hear my mother's calls to get up. But I just lay there. I swiftly make my way to my door, silently close and lock it.
As I went back under the covers I immedietly fell asleep. I dreamt of being happy. To smile for once, never being the outcast geek that I was. I woke up smiling, but as I opened my eyes, that smile faded to a look of shock, horror.
Standing before me, was my mother. Smelling of beer, she was holding a belt. Infact my black studded belt. As if she were to hit me. As soon as I realized this, I jumpep up, only to get hit on my ass really fucking hard. On the studded side. I screamed in pain. I try my best to make it through the door, my mother blocks me.
"Where the fuck do you think your going?" my mother absent-mindedly asked me, pulling me in my bedroom.
"The bathroom. To get-. To get ready for school," I say as I try to resist her grip. Fuck, I thought. I really was in deep shit. SMACK! She hit my belt across my back. She let go of me, as I made my way to the bathroom, tears streaming down my cheecks. I lifted my shirt up towards the mirror. 'Shit,' I thought. My lower-back had purple bruises, in shape of squares. I look closer only to find, she hit so hard, my back was starting to pus.
"SHIT!" I yell, in pain as I try to take off my shirt. My mother comes rushing in slamming the door.
"What the fuck is going on?!" I hear my dad yell, from my parents bedroom.
"Nothing honey!" my mom answered back. She turned to me. "Your father has a hangover, so shut the fuck up. Plus, don't use that language," she said in a very firm tone. I nodded my head and she walked out.
I went to my room and got dressed. I swong my messanger bag over my shoulder, and walked to school. It was only a couple of blocks. The thing was, I was geek. I mumbled out correct answers to supposably "hard" questions. I tried not to. See, being a geek for 14 years, it's hard to change.
I'm 15. I started dressing punk at age 14. A couple weeks before my 15th birthday. And, the year is 1985. My favorite artist/band was Bowie.
I got to school, and quickly went into the bathroom. I went to a stall and changed from a preppy dress my mother made me wear, to a faded black shirt, and blue jeans I wore inside-out.
The thing was I knew they'd stick to my legs anyway, because it was summer. I always kept extra clothes in my bag to change in when I got to school. Well, I sat on the toilet. No, not to go to the bathroom. I just sat there, and kept the door opened a creak so I can see anyone who came in.
I took a cigeratte out of my bag, as well as my green Bic. I took one long drag. As I exhaled the smoke, I began to stick my hand into my bag to look for glass, for emergencies. I finally found one. I took another long drag, and exhaled, holding my eyes shut tight, I dragged the glass along my arm.
One cut should make it through the day. I sighed and looked at my open flesh, already bleeding, and pus was starting to come out. I threw my cigeratte in the toilet, and flushed it.
I walked up to the sink and washed my arm. And made sure it stopped bleeding. The reason I cut, was because I had control. I can make pain, and when I want it to end, I stop it.
I took out some gel and spiked my short black hair. Safety pins hung from my clothes, and paper clips from my ears. I drank out of my shampoo sample bottle I had filled with my parents' vodka. The day was going by fast.
I entered math class. I got my test back, it read, "86% Good Job!". 86 fucking percent?! That was the lowest grade I had ever gotten in math! Dick. He always was. I'd gotten away with raising my hand, and mumbling the right answer, because of my attitude.
I didn't really have friends. They wouldn't understand me. My boyfriend doesn't even understand me. He thinks just because he says so I'll stop. Wonders.
I made it home. My mother didn't look at me when I came in. I went straight to my room, and tried to nap.
As I went back under the covers I immedietly fell asleep. I dreamt of being happy. To smile for once, never being the outcast geek that I was. I woke up smiling, but as I opened my eyes, that smile faded to a look of shock, horror.
Standing before me, was my mother. Smelling of beer, she was holding a belt. Infact my black studded belt. As if she were to hit me. As soon as I realized this, I jumpep up, only to get hit on my ass really fucking hard. On the studded side. I screamed in pain. I try my best to make it through the door, my mother blocks me.
"Where the fuck do you think your going?" my mother absent-mindedly asked me, pulling me in my bedroom.
"The bathroom. To get-. To get ready for school," I say as I try to resist her grip. Fuck, I thought. I really was in deep shit. SMACK! She hit my belt across my back. She let go of me, as I made my way to the bathroom, tears streaming down my cheecks. I lifted my shirt up towards the mirror. 'Shit,' I thought. My lower-back had purple bruises, in shape of squares. I look closer only to find, she hit so hard, my back was starting to pus.
"SHIT!" I yell, in pain as I try to take off my shirt. My mother comes rushing in slamming the door.
"What the fuck is going on?!" I hear my dad yell, from my parents bedroom.
"Nothing honey!" my mom answered back. She turned to me. "Your father has a hangover, so shut the fuck up. Plus, don't use that language," she said in a very firm tone. I nodded my head and she walked out.
I went to my room and got dressed. I swong my messanger bag over my shoulder, and walked to school. It was only a couple of blocks. The thing was, I was geek. I mumbled out correct answers to supposably "hard" questions. I tried not to. See, being a geek for 14 years, it's hard to change.
I'm 15. I started dressing punk at age 14. A couple weeks before my 15th birthday. And, the year is 1985. My favorite artist/band was Bowie.
I got to school, and quickly went into the bathroom. I went to a stall and changed from a preppy dress my mother made me wear, to a faded black shirt, and blue jeans I wore inside-out.
The thing was I knew they'd stick to my legs anyway, because it was summer. I always kept extra clothes in my bag to change in when I got to school. Well, I sat on the toilet. No, not to go to the bathroom. I just sat there, and kept the door opened a creak so I can see anyone who came in.
I took a cigeratte out of my bag, as well as my green Bic. I took one long drag. As I exhaled the smoke, I began to stick my hand into my bag to look for glass, for emergencies. I finally found one. I took another long drag, and exhaled, holding my eyes shut tight, I dragged the glass along my arm.
One cut should make it through the day. I sighed and looked at my open flesh, already bleeding, and pus was starting to come out. I threw my cigeratte in the toilet, and flushed it.
I walked up to the sink and washed my arm. And made sure it stopped bleeding. The reason I cut, was because I had control. I can make pain, and when I want it to end, I stop it.
I took out some gel and spiked my short black hair. Safety pins hung from my clothes, and paper clips from my ears. I drank out of my shampoo sample bottle I had filled with my parents' vodka. The day was going by fast.
I entered math class. I got my test back, it read, "86% Good Job!". 86 fucking percent?! That was the lowest grade I had ever gotten in math! Dick. He always was. I'd gotten away with raising my hand, and mumbling the right answer, because of my attitude.
I didn't really have friends. They wouldn't understand me. My boyfriend doesn't even understand me. He thinks just because he says so I'll stop. Wonders.
I made it home. My mother didn't look at me when I came in. I went straight to my room, and tried to nap.
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