True Colours

Chapter 1

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Hey, my names Rosa. Not many people understand my story so here it is, all packed up in a book. Every time someone opens this book I’m wondering whether they too, are feeling my pain. Once people read this horrific story of mine I hope that they would understand my reason for not being close to anyone other than Jay, my mother and my sister who all helped me through this trauma. So here goes.

Every morning I walk out my front door with a painted smile just to ease everyones thoughts and suspicions. My shortish, blonde wavy hair blinds my eyes as the soft morning breeze brushes against my face. Im greeted by my bunch of gorgeous and beutiful friends.

A hot summers day, beads of sweat placed under my hairline. An icy sweet mouth watering ice lolly bursts in my mouth, taste buds exploding within seconds. My life ends as soon as I leave them guarded school gates. My parents must hate me, they look upon me as if im scum, a piece of total shit that my mother gave birth too. My belly; covered in ugly scars, cutting, my answer to relieving the pain I feel. I cry my self to sleep wondering whether or not I should carry on living. Have I brought everything on  my self? I mean my parents love my other sibling's, the happiness and rejoice I see on their face brightens my day up too. If only they appreciated me as a daugheter too. I wish i had someone to speak too, that would understand how I feel. I quiver in pain as my cuts on my belly plunge my nerves. Why? Why me.

A few doors away from my door step, and I hope no ones home so I can hurry up to my room. But no, im greeted my a scowling face of my father. An outburst of shock rushes through me like an electriz buzz, as he grasps me in his hands and gives me an awkward squeeze. I smile, not realising where this could all lead me too. I drop my bag and embrace from the unexpected hug. 'UPSTAIRS NOW!!' my father belts out. A fresh wave of tears form in my eyes as I bend down to grab my bag they flow out and I rush up the stairs and collapse in a terrible state on my bed. Wishfull thinking I'd call it.