Chalk board.

Reads: 166  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 0

More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: Thrillers  |  House: Booksie Classic
by the end of this story you should know the meaning of it. it's about a confronting issue, and it ends quite sadly. i hope ive captured the the feelings correctly, and i hope you like it.

Submitted: June 26, 2013

A A A | A A A

Submitted: June 26, 2013



These white walls are screaming my thoughts. They do that every day. I don’t know why exactly. Well that was a lie, I do know. I know why they are screaming. They are screaming what I can’t bare to say. All this padding, it stops me from killing the thoughts. But even though I want to get rid of them, I know I can’t, because they tell me who I am.

Have you ever been in one of those situations, where things were out of your control? Where the situation was in your hands, but your mind just freezes, and won’t let you change what you are about to start, and then once you start you have to continue? You cannot stop until it is finished. Well that’s what I had to do, or did, or that’s what happened. I cannot stop thinking. It’s all I do. It’s all I have time for.

My name is Blue, like the colour. First name; Pearl. What an odd last name aye? Blue. My mother used to call me Baby Blue. It was cute. I guess it will never be cute again. I’ll probably never see my mother again. Maybe I will one day if there is an afterlife. There’s not that much I remember about my mother. I just remember coming home from elementary school to my dad saying Mum had been in a car accident. Then he started to drown himself, and not with water- with booze. He began to drink a lot more then what he ever did while Mum was alive. With every day that went by he drank more then the previous one, or that’s how it seemed. Holding a bottle of bourbon in his old wrinkled hands every night as he walked in my room.

I don’t know much about death and that kind of stuff. I haven’t seen anyone but the nurse and doctor who could hide camouflaged against these walls for two years this fall. I’m very good with dates and stuff like that; come to think of it I was pretty good at math. Funny as it seems I miss math. The sums Mrs Parkway would write up on the chalkboard and expect us to answer within a couple of seconds. Her messy handwriting always confused me. Mrs Parkway would daintily move her shredded paper hair from her forehead, and then her old blue eyes would peer over her glasses to see who wasn’t paying attention to her mathematics.

I used to love thinking about mathematics.  But I can’t now, because if I think too much, it makes me remember.

What happened, it wasn’t even my fault! I didn’t I deserve it! I was just a normal person! Why did I deserve it more than anyone else? I didn’t deserve to be treated like that by my own father! Humanity still leaves me speechless. Some humans can be that torturous. I will never be normal. My life will never be normal. My father’s bottle of bourbon would drop to the floor and he would smirk at me. My father had urges. Urges he thought I could fulfil. I screamed no, no, no! He wouldn’t stop, he didn’t stop, and nothing would make him listen to me. The smell of cheap alcohol on his breath suffocating me as he held me down. He saw the light in my eyes fade, and the tears no one saw. I looked at his eyes, the contentment, the satisfaction, and the joy out of what he was doing. He didn’t care and he certainly wouldn’t stop. He told me he would kill me if I ever told anyone, and even in his drunken state I knew he wasn’t kidding.

I wasn’t very popular in school. I didn’t have friends. Everyone thought I was weird. The girls that had perfect hair and brand new outfits almost every day thought I was strange. This boy started to like me. His big brown puppy dog eyes could see into my soul, he made me feel alive in more ways then he could have ever known. He wore oversized t-shirts that were so big the sleeves dangled over his elbows. His t-shirts had prints of random patterns and cities on them. I always noticed how he loved his skinny black jeans. He had 8 pairs so he never ran out of clean ones. Dre Beats wine coloured headphones hung around his neck even if he wasn’t listening to music. His favourite shoes were a pair of vintage olive green coloured sneakers with pristine white laces. I loved the way he flicked his mars bar brown hair to one side as he looked at me.

All we did was spend lunchtime together eating in the corner of the cafeteria, mocking the popular kids, and mutually agreeing on how shit some of the canteens food was.  It wasn’t much but I looked forward to it everyday. We became friends in science period during the last lesson of the day before we got to go home. It was quite funny actually; everyone was tired at that point in the day. He was in the middle of yawning when he tripped over his own foot and landed on my work desk stomach-first. As he began to get off my desk, he let out a burp. And it wasn’t a quiet one, it sounded like a plane taking off from a runway.  We both started cracking up, while the other kids made fun of him. The next day I saw him sitting alone at lunch in my spot in the corner of the cafeteria. I went over there to reclaim my spot; we started talking sarcastically to each other even though we were both shy and as nervous as kittens. But we became friends.

One day I was in my dad’s room and I shouldn’t have been. But he was at work. And I wanted something, something of my mothers, to have with me, so I didn’t feel so alone when I wasn’t in the cafeteria at lunch. I found her old jewellery box shoved under the bed collecting dust. It was soft pink with a porcelain coloured silhouette bust, and a little ballerina still spinning around inside of it in a tattered old tutu. I hoped to find one of Mum’s charm necklaces, hopefully the one with the heart on it, or the necklace with a silver star. She always wore beautiful necklaces. When I opened it completely, there were no beautiful necklaces. What I saw made my legs feel faint and my head feel cold. On the petal coloured fabric inside, there was a gun.

There was a big beach party and I took my dad’s gun without him knowing. I wasn’t really invited by anyone but I just wanted to get away from him for the evening. I don’t know why I took the gun exactly- I guess it kind of made me feel like if I ran away I would be some sort of safe. I kept it in my back pocket. My woolly lavender coloured jumper draped across my blue skinny jeans, it hung just over my bum.

Something happened, it wasn’t supposed to.  I shouldn’t have fallen asleep.

I went to the beach party when I told my dad I was going to the library to study. It wasn’t so much the party I wanted to go to, but the beach itself. There was just something about the way the waves crashed into the shore that calmed me and made me feel better. Every time I was near the ocean I felt like I could live on the beach forever. I always dreamed of having a house in Malibu one day so I could go for walks along the shoreline every night after supper and look out of my deck at the moonlight shining over the waves.

I wasn’t really a party person; I never saw the point of them. No one ever talked to me really, unless they needed to use my cell phone to call their parents or a cab while they were struggling to stand up properly. That night, the bonfire was blistering away; the sky was black but lit up with a bright glow around the full moon. People were sitting around drinking cans of cheap alcohol, passing joints around to each other as mellow voiced songs with chilled beats played in the background and some people started singing along. I saw a big tub full of different cans of alcohol piled up in it with a sign saying “Help yourself to a can or two.” But I never touched one. I didn’t want to smell like my dad’s breathe- I couldn’t do it. The memories that go along with the horrible stench of his saliva. I meandered away through the silky dry sand, further away from the party and lay down and looked up at the stars. That’s the last bit I remember.

Fuck. I shouldn’t have let myself. Why did I fall asleep! I didn’t mean to! Dazed, I tried to make sense of my surroundings. I woke up to feeling a hand on my leg. From what I could see faintly through my blurry sight, the whole beach was mascara black now, and from a distance the bonfire had died down to nothing but ash and grey smoke. I felt warm breath breathing on my forehead, and a hand resting on my hip with a thumb moving slowly backwards and forwards on my jumper. It was going to happen again. I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t take another night of it. Not even one more minute. I had to act. I pulled the gun from my back pocket before I hadn’t even opened my eyes properly.

I shot. I shot bullets everywhere around me, like I was creating a shield of protection.  

The very last bullet I fired sounded different though, deeper, like I’d shot a thick pillow. I snapped out of the trance I was in. It wasn’t my dad it was the boy. His eyes were still open, but they were dead, like all the moonlight that had once lit them had been extinguished. I couldn’t bring him back. I had killed him. I had stolen his moonlight. I collapsed on his still chest. I looked up at his face, tracing my fingers around his lips. I felt like I was melting into the sea and becoming just another drop of the ocean.

The cops showed up, and I went to the police station where I was put in a dull green room with an old investigator that looked like he was close to retiring. White hair covered his faint bald spot and his blue grey eyes opened and closed quicker then they should have.  As I told him all that had happened, he wiped his big forehead with his wrinkly pale hands. When I finished he gently placed the handcuffs on my wrists. He had the saddest look on his face.

The cops must have gone to my house, because my dad came through the police doors kicking and cursing through the police doors. He was dragged past me and that bitter smell of liquor followed him. I shivered. If only the bullet had of been for him. They yanked him out through a side door, and I haven’t seen my father since.

Now, I’m stuck in this room.

I cannot be touched. I cannot be loved. But most of all, I hate how these walls are screaming.



© Copyright 2018 sweet agony xo. All rights reserved.

Add Your Comments:

More Thrillers Short Stories