My short stories

I Am Filthy.

Dirty. His touch still lies upon my skin. Kissing, physical touch, it all makes me feel so dirty. I would be lying if I said I didn't think about carving away at my skin until it is no more. I'd be perfectly fine never being touched again. It's not generally like this however, hugs are okay and holding hands is a particularly innocent undertaking.  But kissing? Someone slowly trailing their hand down my body? Those cold hands. Even my clothes never seem to be clean. I feel so filthy. I scrub and scrub until my skin bleeds. Tearing away at my own skin in the shower. The water is burning my skin. The pain feels so good because it replaces the feeling of touch that I can't seem to shake off. It replaces the dirtiness of my skin. No matter what I still can't get clean. The dirt will not come off, no matter how hard I scrub. My desperate attempts are met with no results. When will my pleading come into effect? My eyes at this point don't know how it feels to be dry. Dry as a desert. Not continually crying, however not generally content all things considered. I'm rarely fulfilled. To what extent do I have to go to help myself feel better. Scratching my skin in order to quiet down my elevated detects. You did this to me. I can't go a day without staring blankly at a wall and recalling old memories. Memories of what was but no longer is. It's a constant reminder of how life was before you laid those nasty, cruel, distrusting, ferocious hands upon my gentle and warm skin. My innocent skin. My skin has seemed to lose its innocence along with its warmth. The warmth it conveyed is no more. It's now cold and fragile. My head feels like it has a weight attached to it. It's Awfully heavy, heavier than it's ever been. My ears ring now too. My left ear rings more than my right. Though, they never seem to ring simultaneously. My mom ponders upon the thought of how her little girl is gone now, and how I've changed tremendously. I shake it off and use the excuses of how I change with age, and it's related to adolescence. She would never understand. After all it's her fault I'm like this. If she had never brought him into our house and allowed him to stay then maybe I would still be your sweet little girl. Blaming my mother never seems to do me justice. It makes me feel like her tender heart could truly never handle the truth. What may take cover behind my falsehoods is truly for her own prosperity. I can barely admit to myself what had happened, much less to my own mother. Admitting to myself that it's doing me no good to mope around and blame my own issues upon these acts is hard in itself, but getting help isn't an option. Who would listen to me? My weeps for help are just merely shrieks and not screams. Looking at myself in the mirror and thinking I'm pretty is something only I can wish for. You've effectively left a blemish on me. How does that feel? I can't even think I'm pretty anymore with how dirty I feel. It's all a never-ending cycle. Someone as disgusting as I am shouldn't end my suffering either. I deserve it after all.