Featured Review on this writing by Jeff Bezaire

Fences

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: September 15, 2018

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Submitted: September 15, 2018

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Fences.

If you should linger outside her door, you will not hear her cries or sobs. The tears she sheds are silent ones, single ones that make their way down to drip.

Don’t stare, whatever you do?

She won’t like it.

The fences are there to keep the glances, the sympathy, the hostility out.

The fences are there to keep the failure, the isolation, the miscommunication in.

Misfit!

Hermit!

Freak!

All these and more she hurls at herself, painful as it can be. Not enough to change anything. The fences are made of strengthened steel; coils of barbed wire drape the top.

She can’t get through.

She can’t climb over.

Her tongue trips her, her awkwardness works as instant paralysis. Anxiety makes her close her eyes and shut it all out.

They think she is lucky; those outside. All this....time. They are all constrained by the pressures of their lives, they don’t have her freedom; what do they know?

Do they know how many times she has just wished to be like any one of them, able to live, to function outside of her fenced-in pen? How she has to stay behind the fence because seeing people chatting, interacting, being themselves with friends, cuts her straight to the heart?

It would not matter for none would care. She shuts her bitterness in with her isolation and bites the bullet, screams inside.

She can see the sky.

There must be somewhere she belongs.

Some other planet where she would not be a misfit, an outcast.

Why don’t they rescue her?

Will they ever?

She is not a drop-out of society. You cannot drop out of something you’ve never been a part of. They are out there, seeing what they see, thinking what they think.

Let them. She’ll never change it.

It’s all a trick, an illusion of smoke, mirrors and convincing masks. She can pretend, when there has to be a breach, when she has to go through the gate in the fence. She’s very good at that.

Just as she has become skilled at the single silent tear-drop.

No one will notice as she surreptitiously wipes it away.

Back inside, she slams the gate. Turns her back on her failures, so clearly obvious when she walks outside of her comfort zone, of her safe, secure, fenced in prison..

They come back with her – those taunts.

Those feelings that haunt.

Her feelings belong behind the fence; her heart, her mind, her being. Once the echoes have gone she’ll be safe for a while.

Broken. Wrong. Misinterpreted.

Inside, looking out; while those outside would never even bother to think of what it’s like inside.


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