Post by July Anderson on Dec 27, 2009 4:12:22 GMT
(EDIT: so, this totally isn't harry potter related, at all, which i hope is alright? if not, just tell me, and i'll write a potter-related one. and it's really depressing, but i had it saved on my computer and i'm being lazy, so. xD)
You know that one girl? The one at your school, work, office, gym... The one who is always staring off into the distance. The one who just gives you these looks so full of sorrow sometimes that you're not even sure that you want to know what those haunting eyes have seen. The one who never laughs or smiles. The one who is old beyond their years. The one who's contantly told, "Live a little," but they simply can't. She's seen things you can't being to imagine. Things a mere teenager shouldn't have to deal with. Heck, things anybody, however old, shouldn't have to deal with.
Do you want to know her story?
She is the girl who came home every day to a broken home. Her mother was always snorting some new drug, her father always stumbling through the doorway, drunken. And the screaming. Oh, the screaming. It never stopped. It was always something. The father would constantly punch the mother in a drunken rage, and all she could do was go into her room, lock the door, and try to block out the screaming with the radio or television. But she could still hear them, the fighting was omnipresent in her home.
She would never tell a soul about her family, never complain, but shove it in a box in the back of her mind, lock it up, and throw away the key. But the box was always rattling. She could never quite forget. Then, one day, her only friend told her that she was a freak, and they couldn't be friends, because she was ruining her reputation.
That's the first night she went to a bar.
The neon lights disgusted the girl, and between choking down pina coladas and shots, all she could think of was that she was being just like her father. She couldn't take it. She hurled her glass against the wall, payed the bartender, and ran. But the box was still there, in the back of her mind.
So she decided to try drugs.
The cocaine was horrible. She kept coughing it up, but she was driven by the desire to forget her troubles. It wasn't working, no. She needed something stronger. She got bottles of Jack Daniels, and drank them all. Even through the haze, she could still remember. She needed to forget. It was imperative that she forget.
So she put a razor blade to her wrist and slashed it. The pain was blinding, but even through everything, she did not forget. So she cried. She sat on a street corner and cried. When she passed out through the mixture of drugs, alcohol, and blood loss, even in her dreams, she didn't forget.
When she woke up, she felt terrible. And not just because of the massive hangover. She felt terrible because she was just like them. She had repeated her so-called "parent's" stupid mistakes. And so she vowed to never be like them, to stand against everything they are.
And so I sit here now, in your class, your office, on the stairmaster next to you, my eyes haunted with memories from the past.
I cannot forget.
You know that one girl? The one at your school, work, office, gym... The one who is always staring off into the distance. The one who just gives you these looks so full of sorrow sometimes that you're not even sure that you want to know what those haunting eyes have seen. The one who never laughs or smiles. The one who is old beyond their years. The one who's contantly told, "Live a little," but they simply can't. She's seen things you can't being to imagine. Things a mere teenager shouldn't have to deal with. Heck, things anybody, however old, shouldn't have to deal with.
Do you want to know her story?
She is the girl who came home every day to a broken home. Her mother was always snorting some new drug, her father always stumbling through the doorway, drunken. And the screaming. Oh, the screaming. It never stopped. It was always something. The father would constantly punch the mother in a drunken rage, and all she could do was go into her room, lock the door, and try to block out the screaming with the radio or television. But she could still hear them, the fighting was omnipresent in her home.
She would never tell a soul about her family, never complain, but shove it in a box in the back of her mind, lock it up, and throw away the key. But the box was always rattling. She could never quite forget. Then, one day, her only friend told her that she was a freak, and they couldn't be friends, because she was ruining her reputation.
That's the first night she went to a bar.
The neon lights disgusted the girl, and between choking down pina coladas and shots, all she could think of was that she was being just like her father. She couldn't take it. She hurled her glass against the wall, payed the bartender, and ran. But the box was still there, in the back of her mind.
So she decided to try drugs.
The cocaine was horrible. She kept coughing it up, but she was driven by the desire to forget her troubles. It wasn't working, no. She needed something stronger. She got bottles of Jack Daniels, and drank them all. Even through the haze, she could still remember. She needed to forget. It was imperative that she forget.
So she put a razor blade to her wrist and slashed it. The pain was blinding, but even through everything, she did not forget. So she cried. She sat on a street corner and cried. When she passed out through the mixture of drugs, alcohol, and blood loss, even in her dreams, she didn't forget.
When she woke up, she felt terrible. And not just because of the massive hangover. She felt terrible because she was just like them. She had repeated her so-called "parent's" stupid mistakes. And so she vowed to never be like them, to stand against everything they are.
And so I sit here now, in your class, your office, on the stairmaster next to you, my eyes haunted with memories from the past.
I cannot forget.
