---- This is another story I'm writing that I actually plan to go pretty far with. I've already planned out the ending for it. I don't know if I'm going to make this story very long, but I'm not sure. Anyways, there are two poems in this chapter (written by me but in the POV of the main character.) One of the poems you may recognize. That poem was actually originally written for this story, but I posted it separately because I liked it so much ^^ any way; comment, vote and ENJOY!
[Chapter 1]
[Poem]
No matter who I call to
They never really come
If I ask one to wait for me
Thay always turn and run
Darkness now surrounds my heart
Where my feelings used to be
Because nobody really cares
About the nobody
Wallowing in self-pity
At the mirror's vacant stare
Cursing at my rage and temper
That had gotten me there
My life consumed by the color black
And at the brink of going insane
It seems my only outlet
Is mine and other's pain
I bite hard on my tongue as I reread the words I just wrote, and keep biting until the metallic taste of blood fills my mouth.
"P-thea!" I spit at the ground then roll my tongue throughout the rest of my mouth and spit again.
"Stupid!" I rip out the page from my notebook and ring my hands around it and toss it to the floor. "Ugh!" I growl and bang the back of my head against the wall of my bedroom that is perpendicular to my bed.
"Still not right..." I thump my head rhythmically against my wall until my eye catches the small pool of blood that I had just spit on the floor. I roll my tongue around my mouth once again, this time in thought. The taste still lingers, a taste I was used to. I always bite my tongue when angry or anxious. A bad habit; I know, but some classmates of my have one worse.
I close my eyes for a moment before I opene them to the pool of blood on the floor. Then I open my notebook to a blank page.
[Poem]
Blood on the Floor
Knife in the Hand
Guilt and Depression, can barely Stand
Blood on the Floor
Its hardly Known
That the Knife on the Floor and the Blood are Your Own
I reread my words again, this time without harming myself. I feel a smile creep up my lips. A dark smile, a corrupt smile. I rewrite the poem several times until it's perfect, then carefully tear it out of my notebook and pit it into a file I had marked "Poetry."
As you can see, I have... issues.
With my dark poetry, short-temper, rage and self inflicted pain, it's easy to see that I had issues. Amanda Eboné runs an Art Therapy program for those mentally or physically ill. May they be autistic; physically handicapped; or, in my case, insane. I often become lost in the studio through the colors and media. It ismy one outlet that didn't involve rage, and (despite working with other lunatics or pyros) I feel like I belong. However, one Wednesday a week is not enough to solve my problems and my issues are far from solved.
My mother prefers to have me inside the house aside from school. Not that she locks me up in my room and secludes me from the outside world, she just feels more comfortable with me away from people, and I do as well.
When I was much younger, about five years old, my mom started to worry about me socially and put me in group swimming lessons. On the first day the teacher looked at our forms. I had never swam before and, of course, my form was terrible. Another student had perfect form and teased all the other swimmers about it, especially me.
For ten minutes he prided himself and ruthlessly badgered me. In ten seconds the brat stumbled off crying with a broken nose and an even more broken ego. We never set foot in that swimming pool after that.
When I started elementary school I was always teased and taunted. I could never fit in with normal kids. The teachers alway treated me differently because of my Bipolar and were soon notified of my anger issues. But one girl, Marcy, was always nice to me. She wouldn't tease me or treat me like I was a freak. I liked her since the day I had met her. She wasn't quite as pretty as some of the girls in our class, but to me; she was beautiful.
On Valentine's Day I worked up the courage to ask her to be my Valentine. I bought her the biggest rose I could find with the little pocket money I had and had spent nearly and entire week slaving over a hand made card just for her. When I brought them to her she just stared at me with pitiful, almost embarrassed eyes and I was devastated to find out that she was already Valentines with Ricky Corbin. Let's just say, I lost my mind while Ricky lost a tooth. He also got a broken arm that day, but there is no way that it could ever compare to my broken heart. Now, Ricky still pisses himself anytime I'm near and to this day Marcy won't even look at me.
"Hey honey," my mother croons, interrupting my train of thought.
"Hm..." I grunt back as I cover up my writing. I'm a little sensitive to the idea of others reading what I write, even if it ismy own mother.
"I brought you some pizza and yogurt. Didn't have time to make dinner, sorry," she says in an undertone as she places a plate on my end table.
"It's okay," I answer as I take the slice of pizza, "Is Dad home?" She nods and I grimace.
"You writing?" my mom inquires, touching my notebook.
I snatch it and spit, "Yes!" She pulls her hand away with a hurt look on her face. She always wants to read what I write, or at least she thinks she does. If she ever read what I wrote she'd be scared to her wit's end.
"Well, good. I'm glad you're writing, 'cause I'm sorry to say this but I can't take you to art therapy this week."
"What? Why?" I snap.
"I'm sorry, hun," she apologizes, "I've got to work overtime all week."
"Can't Dad?" I ask. As soon as I do I bite my tongue. I already knew the answer to that. She just looks at me.
"What do you think?" she answers. . I could feel my blood boiling, my frustration was starting to get out of control.
"Goddamnit!" I burst, throwing my notebook against the wall, "The only thing I look forward to each fuckin' week! Of course! If that asshole you married would just get off his lazy ass then you wouldn't have to work so damn much!" I can feel my mother inching away from me . She knows there is no use trying to calm me down when I am in a mood like this.
"I'm sorry Boo," is the last thing she says to me before exiting the room and shutting the door behind her. I scream for a little while longer, then I throw some things. I might have ripped some papers, but I'm not sure. Things go kind of fuzzy when I get into a fit. For a good five minutes or so my fit lasts. I scream and cuss and throw things until I've essentially forgotten what I was angry about. Finally my fit ends and I lay down on my bed, letting spinning sensation of the room turn itself back into place.
YOU ARE READING
The Girl in the Red Sweater
PoetryBoo has been on the brink of insanity since he was born. Unable to control his anger, he has become a threat to himself and others. That is, until he finds her. This girl has brought him back to earth and has shown him more than he ever thought poss...
