Status: Stories do not intertwine, will go on forever.
Unfortunate Souls
Duffle Bag
She knew there was no real reason for it. She knew that, physically, she was safe. She knew her family loved her, and she hoped that if they knew everything, they would continue to do so.
But the little blue duffle stayed hidden under her bed, over flowing with a pair of pajamas, two sets of clothes, and her travel toothbrush.
It was the mental abuse she feared. It was the looks of disappointment, the arguments, the nights she spent locked up in her room that made her do it. The fear that maybe, one day, she would find herself abandoned too soon and facing the world on her own.
Just in case, she kept the car keys and wallet close at hand. A quick and easy get away, only a door in her way.
The loneliness is what killed her. A prisoner in her own room, depending on wordless conversations to keep her sane. She could call people, but her voice usually started to tremble before she could stop it, and the sobs would surely alert the family she desperately tried to hide from.
She never formally asked a friend, but several had offered sanctuary. She still wasn't sure who exactly she would turn to first, but she decided that when - if - the situation arose, the car would lead the way, and she would accept Fate as it was.
Family events and holidays became her nightmare. There was no easy escape, no excuse to get away. She found herself leaving the dinner table still hungry, and sneaking food once everyone had moved on to another room. Their words unknowingly hurt her, but she doesn't speak up, not wanting to cause a scene.
It's during another argument when she gets so mad, the words stick to her tongue, and she fights to stay quiet, forces herself to walk away and close the door. Her parents mock her for "not understanding" and "walking away when the questions get tough" but she let's it go, deciding that a roof over her head another night is worth it.
It's at night, when the lights are off, the house is quiet, and the moon is out when she lets the anger tear through her, and she rips her walls bare, rants on social medias, destroys a picture. The tears fall, hot and driven, but she doesn't wipe them away, uses them as fuel. The duffle bag is out, the keys are in her hand, and so is her wallet. Her hands are on the door handle, ready to walk out, to be free, to feel safe.
By morning, the room is clean, all traces of her breakdown is removed, and the car is still sitting in the driveway.
But the little blue duffle stayed hidden under her bed, over flowing with a pair of pajamas, two sets of clothes, and her travel toothbrush.
It was the mental abuse she feared. It was the looks of disappointment, the arguments, the nights she spent locked up in her room that made her do it. The fear that maybe, one day, she would find herself abandoned too soon and facing the world on her own.
Just in case, she kept the car keys and wallet close at hand. A quick and easy get away, only a door in her way.
The loneliness is what killed her. A prisoner in her own room, depending on wordless conversations to keep her sane. She could call people, but her voice usually started to tremble before she could stop it, and the sobs would surely alert the family she desperately tried to hide from.
She never formally asked a friend, but several had offered sanctuary. She still wasn't sure who exactly she would turn to first, but she decided that when - if - the situation arose, the car would lead the way, and she would accept Fate as it was.
Family events and holidays became her nightmare. There was no easy escape, no excuse to get away. She found herself leaving the dinner table still hungry, and sneaking food once everyone had moved on to another room. Their words unknowingly hurt her, but she doesn't speak up, not wanting to cause a scene.
It's during another argument when she gets so mad, the words stick to her tongue, and she fights to stay quiet, forces herself to walk away and close the door. Her parents mock her for "not understanding" and "walking away when the questions get tough" but she let's it go, deciding that a roof over her head another night is worth it.
It's at night, when the lights are off, the house is quiet, and the moon is out when she lets the anger tear through her, and she rips her walls bare, rants on social medias, destroys a picture. The tears fall, hot and driven, but she doesn't wipe them away, uses them as fuel. The duffle bag is out, the keys are in her hand, and so is her wallet. Her hands are on the door handle, ready to walk out, to be free, to feel safe.
By morning, the room is clean, all traces of her breakdown is removed, and the car is still sitting in the driveway.
♠ ♠ ♠
Something happened and I just needed somewhere to rant and cry so here.