“Freak.”
“Freak.”
“Fucking Freak.”
The sounds of thundering footsteps.
“And I FUCKING Hate you too!” I scream back and then slam
the door to my bedroom as hard as I could. My father’s voice immediately
muffled by the thin layer of wood now between us.
I kick my worn shoes off and into the corner, then turn and
weave my way through the twisted confines of my room.
A place in which ‘messy’ was a compliment.
I take a deep breath and fall face first onto my bed.
Quickly enveloped by a mess of blankets, pillows and random stuffed animals.
I crawl deep under the covers and curl into a ball. Closing
my eyes and taking a few more deep breaths before opening them once more to
stare blankly into the blackness tickling my nose.
“Freak…” I whisper quietly and shiver.
Strange how I find a warm comfort in that nickname.
“Freak.” I laugh a little. “I really am a little freak…” I
roll onto my back, quickly tangled in the blankets I had found solace in mere
moments before.
My fist slams into the wall. Sending a jolt of pain
spiraling up the nerve endings of my arm and into my shoulder.
It hurt.
So I did it again. And again. And again.
Lastly my father’s shouts from downstairs reach my ears. And
I stop. Arm feeling numb. Fingers burning. Maybe bleeding. I didn’t quite know.
I sigh and poke my head out from under the covers, looking
hazily around my room for something to keep me from being bored.
I crawl further out from underneath the blankets that
covered me and reached for my notebook.
Ah my notebook. The sanctuary for all my thoughts. The one
best alternative towards razors and scissors. Needles and knives.
Flip open the cover and smirk a little at the sight of my
familiar scrawls. Covering near every inch of blank paper.
Barely even noticing my smirk becoming a smile, I start to
write.
And the hours slip into morning.
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