I can still feel it.
The cold floor on my bare legs.
The tingling feeling on my cheek and back.
The thin blanket I would use to hide under.
The knife that would slice at my skin when I couldn't take the pain.
I can still smell it.
Cigarettes and beer.
Occasionally joined by the strange scents of hair spray and perfume.
The perfume smelled like lavender.
I hated it.
I can still hear it.
Music that was always on at 12pm.
The screaming of a person I should be able to trust.
Glass breaking when I did something wrong.
My sister crying because she wanted mom.
Sobbing heard only when everyone had fallen asleep.
Too loud.
I can still see it.
The beige walls that seemed to be taunting me.
The bathroom that became my only source of safety.
I remember the entire layout of the house.
I can't get the image out of my head.
I still have nightmares.
Waking up in a cold sweat.
Screaming and crying because it was so realistic.
Wanting to tell someone but having no one to tell.
Staying awake for weeks on end.
Only falling asleep from exhaustion.
I'm still scared.
I'm scared that one day I'll wake up and be in that house again.
That I won't be able to escape again.
That no one would be there to help.
And I'd be alone again.
And I'm scared.
I'm terrified.
YOU ARE READING
A Book.
Randommy journal/book filled with rants and shitty writings like poems, short stories, and the occasional random chapters that make no sense and has nothing to do with the rest of the book. you do not have to read this because i'm literally shit at writin...
