tainted ink

s e v e n

"Love is never lost. If not reciprocated, it will flow back and soften and purify the heart." -Washington Irving

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q u i n n

The hate, the struggle, the lifelong heartache; it will never stop. It will never cease to exist. It will always haunt her soul and heart, tearing gashes within, throbbing like a heartbeat in her mind.

They don't care, but why would they? They don't know a thing, but how could they? She doesn't say a word, never lifts her head, never flashes a smile, never lets them see her shed a tear. But would it be better if they did? See what they cause her in a world she wants to escape?

It's not school anymore. It's not learning anymore. It's not education of the mind like it used to be. That all disappeared years ago, when everything you did mattered. Ever breath and every action and every change of the face was like a beacon. No one was safe from tearing eyes, the ladder of popularity could only be climbed by those who were oblivious to the world, lived in seclusion from pain. Instead, they handed it out on a sliver platter. Those top-rung students were the controllers of everyones emotions, they decided what happened and when. No one knew how to stop them, and it was just a constant struggle to fight your way out of the black hole.

Tears stained her face as she sat, huddled against the brick wall. Her legs bent and guarding her like a barrier from everything. Quinn wraps her arms around her knees and lets the pain flow down her face in dribbles of salt water, not even attempting to wipe them away.

It happened again, like it always did. Bruises painted her back in blue and purple and gray, an artwork of sorrow. It was him again, their leader, the one who jabbed her with his hockey stick. No one noticed or gave a damn what was happening. The constant punch of the handle of his tool like a heartbeat. The gym teacher never said a word, even if he did notice. His old eyes never flicked toward her once, never payed her a look of pity.

The pain coarse through her veins as she stood their, helpless. She couldn't move, that would just make his success like a flag waving for the whole class to bear witness to. No, she had to deal with it, tough it out as her mother told her to. Don't let them see the pain, or they would win.

Her cries are silent puffs of air in the chilling breeze, her back rubbing against the coarse stone of the building. Her shoes brush against browning grass and slip from under her, stretching strait on the hard ground. Her cheeks are puffy roses, clear streams of ache running down their surface.

When will it end? Why can't she just leave this place and never come back? Leave all the pain and suffering behind?

l e i g h t o n

There's a soft knock at his door, a moan rumbling his throat. He lifts himself from his bed and sits on its edge, feet dangling over the side and his socked feet brush the floor. He mutters for the source of the knocking to come in, and the sourness drains from his body as the small figure in the doorway sends pain streaming through his heart.

"Lewis?" His voice is hoarse and scratchy, his eyes sad and pitying. The little boy runs into the room and throws himself at his brother, arms circling his waist as his brown-haired head sits on the older boys chest.

"It-t-t-t-'s M-m-m-ickey," he squeezes out through ragged breaths. Tears stain Leighton's gray t-shirt as his brother hugs him tightly.

"Lew, what's wrong?" he asks gently, stroking the little boys hair and biting his lip in fear. He's only seven, but Lewis has always been strong.

"M-m-m-i-c-k-k-k-ey's g-g-g-g-one."

His shoulders shake as the sorrow floods from his big brown eyes, staining his eyelashes and washing his cheeks with pink.