Silent Plea
Every Night
A clash, a sob, the world outside remain undisturbed. It happens every night.
Shaky hands, blurred vision, a clouded mind. She kneels down on the tiled floor to pick up the broken porcelain pieces as sobs rack through her body, her chest contracting in painful heaves. She can barely see her hands or control them as she reach blindly for the small pieces. The tears fall faster, cries becoming heavier as the sharp pieces pierce the skin of her frail fingers. No one can hear her cries, her silent pleas for help. It happens every night.
Angrily, her motives become careless, reckless, mindless. Her short temper comes out in desperate times, which now occurs nearly every night. She hastily grabs the shattered pieces for a quick clean up and tosses them in the trash with force, not caring about the stinging sensation that runs through her hands, up her arms. Red touch on exposed areas of her skin, old cuts becoming new.
She wipes her tears on her forearm, only to find her pale skin now covered in a runny black substance. She clutches her small hands close to her chest and heads to the bathroom, her legs numb. It feels like she was moving in a blur - like her life is flashing by her while she stands back, still stuck in the same spot as two years ago. A part of her is missing, a part that she can never remember clearly and quite frankly, wish she’d never remember at all. It is shameful, she knows that much.
The tears never stopped and the cries never ceased. She looks at herself in the mirror and the dark cloud over her head continues to grow, with every long glance she takes. Her dark hair is a disheveled, disgusting mess; her body is thin, an unhealthy paleness, nothing but skin and bones; and her eyes.
Her eyes, the most unforgiving feature that she has come to despise. They judge her, they scold her, they expose her. A light shade of blue, hard as stone, her pupils an endless sea of black. They hold no meaning, no motives, no hope, no strength. They’re empty and that’s just what she is: empty.
She sees a poor excuse of a human being, a waste of space, a soulless body roaming a planet where everyone sees her as a lost cause. She’s just a corpse, moving along with the motions of everyday life. She does whatever anyone tells her to do, be anyone they want her to be, let them do anything to her. She’s lost sense of what it is to be in control, her mind always in a haze.
There’s nothing to her, nothing at all, except for useless pleas for help. Anyone, anything.
It happens every night.
Shaky hands, blurred vision, a clouded mind. She kneels down on the tiled floor to pick up the broken porcelain pieces as sobs rack through her body, her chest contracting in painful heaves. She can barely see her hands or control them as she reach blindly for the small pieces. The tears fall faster, cries becoming heavier as the sharp pieces pierce the skin of her frail fingers. No one can hear her cries, her silent pleas for help. It happens every night.
Angrily, her motives become careless, reckless, mindless. Her short temper comes out in desperate times, which now occurs nearly every night. She hastily grabs the shattered pieces for a quick clean up and tosses them in the trash with force, not caring about the stinging sensation that runs through her hands, up her arms. Red touch on exposed areas of her skin, old cuts becoming new.
She wipes her tears on her forearm, only to find her pale skin now covered in a runny black substance. She clutches her small hands close to her chest and heads to the bathroom, her legs numb. It feels like she was moving in a blur - like her life is flashing by her while she stands back, still stuck in the same spot as two years ago. A part of her is missing, a part that she can never remember clearly and quite frankly, wish she’d never remember at all. It is shameful, she knows that much.
The tears never stopped and the cries never ceased. She looks at herself in the mirror and the dark cloud over her head continues to grow, with every long glance she takes. Her dark hair is a disheveled, disgusting mess; her body is thin, an unhealthy paleness, nothing but skin and bones; and her eyes.
Her eyes, the most unforgiving feature that she has come to despise. They judge her, they scold her, they expose her. A light shade of blue, hard as stone, her pupils an endless sea of black. They hold no meaning, no motives, no hope, no strength. They’re empty and that’s just what she is: empty.
She sees a poor excuse of a human being, a waste of space, a soulless body roaming a planet where everyone sees her as a lost cause. She’s just a corpse, moving along with the motions of everyday life. She does whatever anyone tells her to do, be anyone they want her to be, let them do anything to her. She’s lost sense of what it is to be in control, her mind always in a haze.
There’s nothing to her, nothing at all, except for useless pleas for help. Anyone, anything.
It happens every night.
♠ ♠ ♠
I totally jumped the gun with this unexpected story baby but I've got such inspiration and love for it. I'm sort of nervous about it - the plot, the direction, the writing style. I'm experimenting with something different for myself; I've re-written the chapters so many times to make it work.So with that, I hope you guys like it.