I pull my hood over my head as far down as it can go. The same lie I was told as a child replays in my head: If I can't see them, they can't see me. My stained hands are shoved deep into the pockets of my black jeans. The city screams with life. This place is too loud, too bright. It's almost humorous to me that every man, woman, and child has no idea what I have just done or where I have just been. Would they be afraid if they knew? Being feared has always been a dream of mine.
No one is scared of a small teenage girl who can't even do a push-up. If only they knew the rage that's in me, the power held deep inside. Anger was always my first emotion when something went wrong. That's just how I was raised: to be sad is to be weak. There is always someone who hurts more than you. Help them, then only if there's time, look at yourself. Joke's on them. I have just smashed a guy's face with my fist because of that horrible advice.
My hands find their way out of my pockets. The cold night air brushes past the fresh wounds. It hurts. But for some terrifying reason, I don't mind.
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Writing Prompts and Short Stories
General FictionWay to start stories you want to write. I want to be a writer so this is where I am going to start. Feedback is appreciated.
