Lines

Hidden wounds.

now, i realize im not a great story teller, specifically to my own stories. its easier to describe something new than something old to someone else. alot of you may not agree but look hear me out, have you ever tried describing a taste to someone? well depending on if its the second time youre trying that taste or the first your words would change. an example would be well trying...uh, well...let me just think for a second.

oh forget it, just try it yourself or give some thought into the idea.

back to the story.

i am a bit more metaphorical because its easier for me. well at least in writing i am. i dont speak to much with people. i have friends of course, but the problem is with new people. i really dont do that sort of thing.
there are things people need to know before they go trying to be sherlock fucking holmes and deduce some people based on sheer looks of them and their situations. i need to know things about "her" after i build up the courage to actually meet "her" and before i go and make assumptions. before i really can stir up a song for her, not for me but for her. ive made a list, a never ending list it seems, to which i only continue to add more and more to it. the list consists of questions and things i think would be needed for me to really know her without being given the chance to judge her. my first question would have to be "what is/are your favorite song/s." some peoples characters could be formed around their favorite things. they might not even know it. it's hard to think up your own character using those facts because people have formed their own ideas of themselves and though the idea of another person may be completely different from your own, it just may surprise you.

the top things on my list consist of favorites. the ones i really do think are important are a persons favorite show, book, song, and thing to do when they're alone. colors really wouldn't matter i get some people looooove the color blue and wear it 24/7 but that doesnt necisarilly mean that they are very happy bright people.  people who love pink arent always dumb girls or airheads, sometimes they arent even happy liked youd expect. like ive been trying to prove, looks can decieve.
the funny thing is, im pretty damn sure ill never work up the courage to ask her these questions before i can write her an actual song for her that she can sort of feel and relate to. at the moment ill settle with trying to get my messages across to her.

i was at home writing some of the last parts for her song and—lemme get off topic for a while, here's where you guys are going to understand one of the last sentences to one of the last chapters you've read from me. okay, back on topic.

it was around or close to midnight, maybe eleven o clock at night or so, thats when my stepdad who, goes to work at four am, gets off at six to seven o clock to then go to bars and arrive at the house in the condition he is. i fear for my mother and therefore i lock her door with a key only i have and i then enter through her window to lock three extra locks on the inside. as for myself, theres worse to come if i do lock my door. i should be used to the time and have a mental alarm to be in bed by the time he comes home or at least turn off my light because, for some reason, that seems to alert him and piss him off that i should be in bed—it sounds fatherly, but the way he enforces these rules is not. 

i dont know how he manages the level of stealth he has when drunk, but he does, and its not very good for me. 

first, comes the banging on the door. like thunder with each bang on the poor slab of wood and i dont even know how it is the doors managed to stay on the hinges this long.

then, the death threats of a beating.

following with the door being thrown open and my heart pounding terribly fast, each time i fear i might die from a heart attack leaving my mother to this man. i shuffle to the farthest corner of my bed from him, body pressed against the wall, as much as humanly possible, hoping itll swallow me up and provide me shelter each time. covering my face with my arms screaming apologies over his bellowing of swears and insults directed my way. 

fear. no matter how many times youre encountered with it, itll always surprise you.

finally,... well ill spare you.

more like sparing myself actually, i get really shaky and i cant type right, much less thinking about it. lets just say i went to school with a bit of my mothers makeup on the next day to hide...things.