January 18, 2018
Write about it she said.....It'll help the hurting stop she said...
Well for starters that's crap. In fact I think writing about your problems doesn't help it just makes it worse. Because now I can re read all the hurt 24/7 365.
But here I am anyway, sitting on my bed, sheets strewn about my feet, my favorite pair of fuzzy socks on and a cup of liquid poison a.k.a Mountain Dew beside me. I find it hard to concentrate with the stupid upstairs neighbors freaking dancing the polka on the ceiling. I swear someday I am going to say something. they are so rude! Wooden floors should be banned in upstairs apartments. It doesn't help I get distracted easily.
I should focus... think pain Nix, think about the hurt....put pen to paper and just do it. *sigh* ok... so yeah this is definitely harder than I thought. Leaning back I stretch trying to get the kink out of my lower back.
Glancing over at the clock 20 minutes have passed and I am still no closer to "venting". I guess I am just not one of those girls who talks about their problems easily. I kind of blame my mom for that. Growing up it was all about secrets. Don't tell. Don't let anyone see. Family secrets are family secrets. well now there is one slight problem with that. Secrets are like a cancer. they slowly eat away at you until you are dead. You feel empty and hollow. Afraid of your own reflection.
It's been 3 months since the fire that changed my life. I can still remember the flames licking across my bed sheets, the searing hot pain as my skin began to melt away and the intense smell of burning flesh. How did it start you wonder?
Well that's quite simple, a candle.... my one indulgence. the flame was barely flickering when I drifted off to sleep. Sweet peas... a scent I once loved and now can't stand. The firefighters still aren't 100% sure how it managed to fall onto the floor and roll to the foot of my bed. all the while staying lit. Even stranger is the fact that the glass didn't break. Not even a crack.
Some people whispered arson.Others claim I did it to myself. but why would anyone want to hurt me? Why would I want to hurt myself?
I am a 29 year old assistant manager in a small town on the butt cheek of America. No money.. No influence and certainly no enemies. I am not suicidal either. I don't care what Mrs. Grimble says. I dream of owning my own ranch, eating Oreo cookies without gaining weight and finding the love of my life. Not exactly the store of a crazy person. But yet here I am trying to find my place in this insane storm I call life. The scars that fire left behind leave me with some many questions...
Am I like the Phoenix, capable of rising from the ashes? Could I fly? Can I be more than what I see in the mirror?
YOU ARE READING
As the phoenix rises
General FictionCharred Flesh, jagged bones and eyes that see only death... this is what I see in the mirror everyday. this broken shell once went by the name of Dianna now I simply go by Nix. I can still remember the day of my 29th birthday, I was supposed to be o...
