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One

The Sound had erupted in her ears long before she had time to react. The crazed creature had attacked her, and not for the first time. Even in her primitive, sleep-deprived state, she knew the creature was her mother. Crazed, bloodshot eyes and tangled, wild hair had given her the appearance of an evil apparition. Her dirty, faded room greeted her as she opened her eyes. She had not dreamed of anything but her always intoxicated mother for at least a few months. All her dreams were based on memory. Of the times she had asked a seemingly harmless question, receiving cuts and bruises in return, and watching over the weeks as they became scars. As far back as she could remember, it had always been like this. Her father had left, for reasons unknown to her, when she was a young girl. When she asked where he had gone, or indeed why, she was attacked by the drug-addled, drunken beast that was her mother. Knowing that soon she would come barrelling in, to force her to wake and slave for her, I decided to get up. The cracked, oval-shaped mirror on the opposite side of my room revealed my figure. Jet Black hair curved its way over my face, and I slowly pushed it behind my ears. Upon doing this, my tortured brown eyes revealed themselves, showing others the pain she had worked ceaselessly to conceal. Her skin was very light, which was extremely lucky, as her scars could be concealed easily beneath layers of light makeup. Nobody at school would suspect that she endured this torture every day, having to wake up, work without rest for her mother, who was almost unable to work for herself, and then being beaten to within an inch of her life at the mere mention of her father. She only wished to know why he had left, and where he had gone. She hopes that one day she could be re-united with him, and escape the clutches of her abusive mother. These thoughts rolled over in her head over and over, making it irresistible to ask her mother, even for the slightest hint of an answer, no matter what the consequence. “Good Morning Chrysabelle,” she muttered, and, struggling to push these thoughts away, she silently pulled on some fresh clothes, careful not to wake her mother, and slipped away, creeping as silently as she could in the narrow hallways. She was surprisingly quiet, considering her athletic build. Trying to remain silent, she entered the kitchen, and started to make breakfast for her mother. No ten-year-old should deal with this. Yet she pushed on. When she had made a superb breakfast for her mother, she ate the scraps she could find, lest she would be beaten for costing money that could be spent on the usual. Cocaine and Beer. Her mother woke, ate her meal ungratefully, and returned into her bedroom. A Loud sniffing noise could be heard almost immediately.

Two

The rest of the day progressed quickly, although she had to travel a very long distance to school on foot, as her mother was incapacitated for the day, not even caring where she was. After a day of concealing scars, keeping to herself, and barely even listening to her teachers, she began the walk home. Around halfway through the journey, she stopped to rest, stitches forcing the breath from her lungs. As she sat, in the grass on the side of the road, waiting for her strength to return, she felt intense emotions burning inside her. The most prominent were self-pity, and anger, at herself, for asking questions, for not leaving with her father, and at her mother. For getting involved in drugs, causing my father to leave me in my own private form of hell, and mistreating me every single day since he had escaped. Forcing herself to abandon these feelings, she continued home, although she did not know why she should return. When she did, however, she found her mother in her room, lying on her bed, eyes fluttering crazily. Her Auburn hair had been spread around the bed, along with several glass bottles, which formerly contained beer. No good could have come of staying, so she left.

 

The Sun had sunken between the hills, causing the clouds around it to be streaked with orange and pink and a maelstrom of other colours. This had caused her to think. Was her father near her, watching the sun rise, or had he forsaken her, fleeing to another land, watching the sun rise? She needed to know where he was. Why he left in the first place. Even if it meant she would sustain more scars, so be it. Her anger was rising up again, welling into her chest, and forcing her to spring to action. She stalked out of her room, and into her mothers’, not even thinking of her actions. The drugs had worn off now, and she raised her head inquisitively, yelling, “What are you doing in here, you ungrateful bitch?” Now the anger increased its intensity, burning her insides. It had to be released, or it would destroy her. The seething mass rushed to her throat, forcing her to reply. “You want to see an ungrateful bitch? Look at yourself! Ever since Dad left, you have forced me to treat you like a baby, doing every task for you, while you drink yourself to death!” Chrysabelle saw her mothers’ eyes rise, as rage contorted her face. Even she was surprised at the words that had flown from her mouth, the words borne in the unrelenting fire of her anger. But she did not regret them. As in all of her dreams, the crazed beast rose, facing her. Being beaten was inevitable now. There was no stopping the beast. Her mother sluggishly pulled her arm back, and then thrust it towards her with all of her might. The attack seemed to move as if it was in slow motion. Surely she had suffered enough pain, enough torture. She did not deserve this. The anger writhed around inside her, like a flaming serpent, searching for a way to escape from her body. It was all too much. The inevitable pain, the insufferable fire in her soul, and the fact she would never find her father. The last thought seemed to evoke a strange force inside her, awakening a dead part of herself, an unused force, stronger than any she had ever felt. It swallowed her, controlling her thoughts and actions. Her only thought was to stop the punch. Chrysabelle no longer existed. There was only this force, the force of destruction, the ability to control the world. She lost herself in its immense mass, and felt as though she was watching her actions from another location. She closed her fist, embracing the terrible force, and felt something strange happen. It was as though time had frozen. Her mother’s fist had stopped in mid-air. The expression she held was one of pure shock. She couldn’t move her hand towards me, to inflict any damage, although she tried with all her might. This brought the serpent inside her to intensify once more. Chrysabelle steeled the grip on her mother’s arm. As she did this, she tried to strike with her free hand, to no avail. The strange force held her in place, not even allowing her to think. As Chrysabelle watched on, her hand’s grip once again tightened, causing her mother to whimper in pain. Then, as the immense force threatened to consume her completely, a familiar sensation brought her to control her own movements. She lowered her hands, and while doing this, felt a warm, sticky liquid covering her arm. She looked down, only to see her whole arm covered in fresh blood. Shock constricted her thoughts once again, slowing her actions. Looking over her arm, she found the source of the blood and of the pain. Blood streamed from her fingernails, some of which had fallen apart at the force of her immense power, and continued along her arm. Although shock and Adrenaline had numbed the pain somewhat, it still felt horrifying. As if razorblades ran across her fingers, never stopping, never ceasing. She cried in pain.


Submitted: February 24, 2012

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B3th3chang3

Your words express such intensity! Loved the way you described a moment. I can feel the pain bursting through this story that has inspired me to write some truth in my life. But to make your words come to life is priceless! thank you for the inspiration, keep writing!

Tue, April 30th, 2013 9:26am

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hey sorry for the very late reply but thanks i will continue to do so :)

Sun, December 15th, 2013 2:16pm

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