Trapped In A Bottle

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
These are two short stories (vignettes) that I had submitted for English class. I spent a lot of time and hard work on these so your feedback and comments are greatly appreciated.

Submitted: January 10, 2012

A A A | A A A

Submitted: January 10, 2012




It was a mistake. They were all mistakes. All the kisses, the hugs, every touch. They were all mistakes. You can’t erase it.You can’t make it go away. You tried to force them out of your mind just as you tried to force them away. Every single one of them. You can’t believe that you let them treat you like that. That you let them disrespect you. You’re worth more than that, you deserve more than that.
You look back on the days, when he told you that you were nothing. That you were worthless. Meaningless. Little did he know that you had a meaning. You had a meaning. You almost let him take your life away from you. Little did he know he made you feel this way. Little did he care. With every word that cut like a knife. That knife. Slipping across your body. Leaving behind small red drops. Dripping slowly. Hitting the ground. Leaving a permanent mark on your skin. Just like he left a mark on your soul. No. Not a mark to be proud of. A shameful one. So you pull your sleeves down and you keep moving. You keep living. Barely. But still living.
They didn’t know that you felt this way. You let them disrespect you because you thought it was normal. You thought it was right. You were getting what you deserved. That’s right. You were getting what you deserved. So time and time again, what you thought was making things better, dulling the pain, was only making them worse. Making you feel like less of a woman. But you had no feelings, he had beaten you down. Desensitized you to the pain. The everyday torture you endured.
One after another they took their turn. All because one guy made you feel this way. You were too young to know what love was, but you thought it was true and you thought it was right. But it wasn’t right. They never apologized. You were afraid. But it was normal. Yes, it was normal. You deserved it. Yes, you deserved it. No. No. No. It wasn’t normal. No, it wasn’t normal. You didn’t deserve it. No, you didn’t deserve it.  But you see now that it was wrong. It was wrong. It was wrong. It was wrong. You’ve found someone now. Someone who understands you. He doesn’t abuse you. He doesn’t take advantage of you. He respects you. Like a real prince. Not like the others. Like a real prince.

Because Empty Is Strong

I can remember the day perfectly. It’s so clear. Like it was yesterday. Was it yesterday? No. No, it wasn’t yesterday. It was November 2, 2009. That was the first time. I needed to be skinny. One meal a day was strong, but empty, empty was stronger. Kneeling in front of the toilet. Real glamorous, right? Eyes watering. Tears streaming down my face. Had I really just done that? Was that really me? I wasn’t a real girl anymore. I was damaged. Once you make yourself do that, you’re no longer real. I couldn’t be a real girl. I was fat. Fat. I couldn’t be fat.
Every day after that. Skip breakfast. “Didn’t have time”. No lunch. “Oops, forgot it at home today”. Ate dinner. Cried in the bathroom for hours afterwards. It had to go, I had to be empty. I wanted to be clean inside. I didn’t want to be filled with toxins. I wanted to be pretty and pink and clean. Clean meant empty and empty meant strong. I wanted to be strong. I wanted to have control. Control over something in my life.
Slowly the weight was coming off. My collar bones. Like small twigs under a thing layer of snow. My hip bones stuck out like two door handles, maybe if you pulled hard enough I would open, and you could look inside. And I’d be proud to have you look inside. Because I’d be pretty. Pretty and pink and shinning. I could now count my ribs, so fragile. I felt as if with one wrong move I’d break. Crack. Crack into a thousand pieces. But maybe that would be better. Better than the dark purple bruises that always seemed to find their way to my hips. The bruises that I would get just from sleeping. Just from my bed hitting my delicate flower like bones. Maybe breaking into thousands of pieces would be better than the cuts. The deep carvings that accumulated along my forearm. The long sleeve shirts I wore every day. Breaking into a thousand pieces would be better than having to wear long pants even on the hottest of days to hide the gashes on my inner thighs. The attempts to release the poisons that stayed inside me. Preventing me from losing that last ten pounds.
I was ninety pounds. I wanted to weigh eighty five. And if I weighed eighty five pounds, I’d want to weigh eighty. And if I got to eighty, I’d strive for seventy five. And even then it wouldn’t be what I wanted. I wouldn’t be perfect until I weighed nothing. Until I was liked a feather. Able to float. Zero. That is the magic number. I would not be perfect until I was weightless. Until I was a feather. Merely a memory. Just a feather. Weightless and perfect.

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