Her life was pieced together by shreds of fabric, nothing ever matching or fitting quite right. She was mostly in the dark shrinking back from the shadows and hiding from the light. Nobody noticed. Nobody helped.
When she was a baby she was passed around. You hold her! No, it's your turn! Why won't she just shut up? Never being able to latch on to one person, a mother, a father, an aunt. She never fell asleep on someone's chest, soothed by their steady heartbeat. She will never be able to recall a moment of peace, a moment of love.
When she was a child, she learned quickly. Don't touch that! Go play. This is none of your business. Go find daddy. Go find your mother. Go away. She welcomed the loneliness, for it never hurt her. She took pride in her play, knowing that for once, she did something right, as long as she stayed out of the way.
When she was old enough to know better, to be played with, yelled at, used, she ran off. Always coming back when they were asleep, never leaving anything valuable behind. She obeyed. She bit her tongue. Her time of playing in the dark didn't end, and by then she knew it like the back of her hand.
And then she was out of her own. Old enough to leave, wise enough to go. And the first time she ever stepped into the light, the first time she allowed the sun to shine upon her face, she was free.
Iiiiii hate this. I just needed to write something, you know? So, hopefully you like it. 😶 😒 😛 😊
YOU ARE READING
WRITERS BLOCK
RandomThis is where I will put the completely random, has nothing to do with anything stories that I create when I have writers block. I'll put out a stick (or two or three) and write based off what the stick says. Please don't judge me... :)
