*This is a story I'm currently working on. And im looking for harsh criticism. But please if you say its crap please explain why. Their are no vampires or wizards in my story, also no nerdy girls falling in love with hot guys.
The story involves myself and me completely and my world as i perceive it. Thank you and if you want me to read your story i will =)
I was an absent child you could say. One that gazed steadily and intently at the brown wood panels gaudily displayed across the thin walls of my shared bedroom when left apart from anyone or anything.
When not staring off into the lonely abyss of my claustrophobic cell i inflicted upon myself, you could find me behind my wooden bunk bed, underneath the cloth souls, victims of my mothers shopaholic tendencies.
My Mother worried about me at times, I didnt go out and play like the other children but instead involved myself in my make believe world. I feel looking back on it now, missing her caring for me. I told her of my dreams I would have throughout the day.
The first of my dreams was my mother being dragged up the stairs by her hair. Me and My twin sister Melissa yelling, "leave mommy alone, stop it!"
Another dream of me in a room, a woman on the bed with duck tape around her lags and hands, the room bare of everything. The woman I never did recognise. Her face suppressed into the inner conscious of my mind, unattainable.
Other images im not sure if they were dreams or memories. I close my eyes now and see a skinny woman, picking me up, telling me she loved me and it was bath time, slowly laying me into boiling water till my feet were covered. I screamed, I screamed till my lungs gave out. The story goes that a man ran into the room grabbing me, saving me. I remember my mother rapping my feet up. She couldnt take me too the hospital. it wasnt that bad and we simply couldnt afford it. My mother didnt take legal action against the babysitter either, she feared her mother, the owner of the apartment complex, would try to find a way to kick her out. The man who saved me, i remember his face to. He was tall with a white beard and hear. he wore a bllue shirt, one that matched the ball cap he was wearing. He was old, old enough to be my grandpa at the time.He had a kind face i remember, almost like Santa Clause.
Another far more disturbing. A woman who liked to pretend i was her daughter, a friend of my mother, always took me to her house to spendd the night and bond. She loved country music, her favorite Allen Jackson. When ever a song of his came on the TV shed pick me up, swing me around and sing along. I felt something i needed with her. She gave me attention, something hard to come by with 2 sisters and a special ed brother. One day though a man came over, hed make different shapes with his hand saying, "should i give it to her?" and i giggle with the one i liked. and hed go over to her while she was bent over in the kitchen and stick his hands between her legs. That night she layed me in bed next to her on the left side of the bed. Him and her snuggled together. something i yearned for too. They checked to see if i was asleep and i pretended as every little kid does. when i heard a thump on the ground. I crawled over to the right side of the bed and looked down to see her on top off him. The next memory I have is my uncle LJ coming over to pick me up in his metal pick up truck. He took a patched up bunny rabbit off the wall and handed it to me before we left.
"What are you doing?!?" the woman said
"her mom wants her home, and she liked the rabbit." Eyes glaring he walking me to his truck and took me home.
Don't get me wrong, I have a few good memories to. When me and My sister were 2 years old, we sat with metal pot, water in our plastic cups, and a bowl of cheerios in front of us. We were sick and it was raining outside of our apartment of the time. My mother gave us cheerios and water to settle our stomach because we had been throwing up earlier that day. Also me and my sister loved the smell of the fresh lit matches our mother used to lite her Marlboro Lites. We would sit under the staircase sucking the head of the fresh matches off the cardboard stick. Hopeing one day we could smell as good as the smell of that freshly lit match.
At school I was considered asocial. By the adults i was called, talented or gifted, as for the children, it was freak. They never said it though, they never had to say it. I knew, I always just knew. I couldn't tell you whether if it is a gift or a curse my knowing., but soon i learned not to talk about it. I didn't even speak about it to my own parents. I don't even know when it started, but i do know when it made itself most pronounced.
My family loving any sale of any kind asked me and my little sister Janelle to read a sign as we drove by. 'Estate Sale' . When we quickly swerved throwing me and my brother and sisters against the side of the car and each-other we stopped in front of a moderate home on a small hill, with a landing that overlooked my street, Bradley. Inside, she decorated her rooms with linoleum floors and the same 70s style wood panels as in my home. She was dead, but she still frightened me. She loved porcelain dolls as well, you could tell by her massive collection that engulfed the home. Each sat with eyes straight ahead. They could be found judging you, piled atop eachother from the dish cupboards, to the bottom draws of end tables, or ominously hanging from the ceiling. In the center of the mass collection of dolls was a Victorian style cherry wood table. All her life's collection layed upon it, displayed for any stranger to walk buy and take home a piece of precious possessions. Earrings and necklaces of all various shapes and sizes, some from AA achievements tossed hypocriticaly next to pot leafs and other motley symbols reflecting upon the woman's life.
And then it caught my eye, A pendant engraved with the world Libra. It came to me then, the thoughts. More of an intuition really. This woman, she had had a hard life, full of drugs and abuse. She turned to god to save her, when he produced no results she turned to other means of faith.
I started to feel the musty room close in on me. This was her hell, her prison, and her waking nightmare. I couldn't let the pendant go. Letting go of that pendant meant letting go of her. I had to save it. Almost as if the triangler gold shape of the pendant was a piece of her, the red flecks her Rosie cheeks. When no one was looking i slipped it into the front pocket of my sweat jacket. The evidence in the prominent sag of the cheap gray fabric.
