Six Minutes

November 11, 2010
By LinedWithCharcoal GOLD, Cherry Hill, New Jersey
LinedWithCharcoal GOLD, Cherry Hill, New Jersey
13 articles 0 photos 1 comment

Favorite Quote:
Make pasta not war~

I only knew you for six minutes.
Just six minutes. I didn't even get your name.
And in those six minutes, you saved me.
So to speak.

I was sitting on that swing in Central Park. The one hanging by a rope from a tree.
I wasn't in a blissful mood,
To put it lightly.
I had gotten into a fight with my father again.
Let's just say,
It didn't end too safely.

Good thing, though. I walked away only suffering a black eye.

I sat on the swing, looking down at the ground, not crying. I'd given up on crying a long time ago.
Because crying makes no sense. All it does is show fear, submission. And weakness.
I am not weak.
I do not fear anything.
Except for love.
And yet, I still long for it; to feel that loving, human contact. All my life, I have felt so humanoid, so unreal.

As did my life.

I do not feel the blows delivered by my father anymore.
They do not hurt, but lately,
They have been growing.
In size,
In number.

I want to get out.

My seventeenth birthday is just around the corner.
Everything will be okay.

I sat on that wooden swing in the middle of Central Park, looking down at the ground, not crying, for I have given up on crying a long time ago.
Because it makes no sense.
All it does is show fear,
And weakness.

I do not fear anything.
Fear is pointless.
I will not submit to him,
Because if I do,
My whole world will come crashing down, for it means giving up the last little bit of hope that I have left.
I can't do that.

And I am not weak.
Because if I am,
Then there's no withstanding the rest of this year and the ones following.
I will be spent.

//You walked over to me sitting on the wooden swing.
"Can I sit with you?" you had asked. I remember feeling incredulous, wondering why you chose to sit with me on the swing of all places when you could've sat anywhere in the park. But I move over and make room for you to sit down.

And you do.
You don't say anything.

*One Minute*

"So, what happened?" I remember you asking.
"Nothing," I say quickly, looking away, attempting to hide the rather large purple bruise taking over my eye. "Something fell on me."
"You know," you said. "There's no way in h*** that you can get that large of a lump on your eye from something falling.

*Two Minutes*

"Who hurt you?" I immediately flared up in anger.
This was not your business.
Except, in a way, even though I had known you for about two minutes,
It kind of was your business.
But, me being me, flipped out.
"What the f*** is your issue? This does not concern you. Who hits me is my issue and not yours. So just, shut up and go away. I don't need you or anybody."

*Three Minutes*

"See, I know your type. A little too well, actually. I don't know who hurt you, and who probably still hurts you, and I'm not too sure I really want to know. But you can't let your silly trust issues stop you from letting anybody else in. suck it up and at least f***ing try.
"It will make a huge difference." I sighed and raised my eyes to yours.
"I'm sorry."

*Four Minutes*

"It was my father." I began, turning fully to face you. I wanted you to get the full story.
I liked you. "He isn't that bad, he just lashes out at me for a while until he gets bored. As long as I don't say anything and just let him get what he wants, it's all okay.
"And I can breathe."

*Five Minutes*

"No, that is a problem. I'm not the person to ask advice for, but I'm telling you, do something." You paused and looked me straight in the eye. "How old are you?"
"Are you planning on going to college?"
"I haven't the money." You just nodded. To this day I still can't figure out what you wanted.

*Six Minutes*

Time was up, and you turned away. "I'm going to get going. You don't have to listen to me, but I really think that you should look out for yourself and at least think about what I said. Get some help." And then you were gone.
I haven't seen you since.//

I walk down the street now, back to my house. It's been four months. I stop in front of the door. On the front porch is an envelope with a return address. I pick it up and look inside.
It's a letter and a blank check, with a signature. The letter says:

/Go to college./

I walk inside and scout out a paper and pencil, sit down at the kitchen table, and begin to write:


You'll be happy to know that I've left my father…/

The author's comments:
Just something I wrote around this time last year. Yahoo~

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