January 15, 2011
By Miss_Meg BRONZE, Broken Bow, Oklahoma
Miss_Meg BRONZE, Broken Bow, Oklahoma
1 article 0 photos 1 comment

Favorite Quote:
"To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all."
Oscar Wilde

Her hair was black, plain black. Not black with shine nor luster, but just plain, dull, and black. Her eyes were black and dark, but not entrancing or alluring in anyway. She had a big nose and non-existent pale pink lips. Her skin was light, which caused the puffy pink scars to stand out against the pale, white flesh.She was very awkward and gawky. She wasn't beautiful or dainty, so she was called "a man."
She was a very large girl, with big bones, which contributed to her getting called the cruel nicknames.

Life at home wasn't much better than her life at school. Her mother had died eleven years earlier in a car crash. As for her father, she didn't much like to talk about him. Everyone knew he was a doctor at the local children's hospital. He was a very tall, handsome man. He had deep, dark hair that fell into his eyes. He had the same white skin and massive hands. He had smokey grey eyes and round belly that bounced when he laughed. He seemed like a social guy, quite the opposite of his daughter, Janice.

Janice was seventeen years old. She lived with her father. She was very quiet and didn't talk much. She seemed slow and gave the impression that something wasn't quite right mentally. She walked like there was a tight string connecting her head and feet. Looking down at her feet she walked, clomping slowly and steadily, pretending not to hear the jaunts and cruel words of the other students. She was depressed and all ways upset, yet none of the students care enough to ask why or what was wrong.

Her favorite teacher, Mr. Marxton, had saw the signs of depression in her actions. He attempted to talk to her about it, yet she wouldn't tell him. So referred her to the school therapist. She saw the therapist every week, yet she hardly talked much. She would stare at the ground, talking softly, mumbling her words. She all ways avoided the questions and never gave straight answers. She never told the therapist what was really wrong. Janice would sit for the whole hour, hardly uttering an understandable word and avoiding all the questions, and then she went back home to her father.

Once home she cleaned, cooked her supper, spaghetti leftovers on the table for her father, and she went upstairs to her bedroom and locked the door. The walls of her room were still a sickly yellow, the same they were eleven years ago. She still slept in the same twin bed with the teddy bear her mother gave her so many years ago. She looked out the window and saw the lights of her father's silver Buick. She didn't rush to meet him at the door, welcome him home, nor leave her room. She sat by the door and listened. She listened to the sound of the plate and silverware clinking as he ate, and as he washed his plates and went to his bedroom.

As quietly a girl her size can, she tip-toed down the stairs to the bathroom. Once inside she turned the water to the shower on, took off her long-sleeve shirt revealing the black tank top underneath and many criss-cross scars across her arms. She reached in the cabinet, felt around inside, and pulled out a new sharpened razor blade. She picked up the shiny blade and studied it carefully, remembering the first cut she ever made and how it felt. She sliced open the old scars and watched as the blood trickled out, she felt the sensation of being alive again.

After her shower, Janice peaked outside the door. Thankfully, her father wasn't anywhere to be seen. She crept back upstairs and locked her door. She wrapped her bleeding wound in paper towels so she didn't get blood everywhere. She laid down and listened for something that has haunted her for years, ever since her mother died. She prayed and prayed that the hands did not come this night. She prayed that they would leave her alone, and then she fell asleep.

It was two a.m. and she was wide awake. As she laid there wondering why she was awake, she heard a creak coming from the stairs. A wave of fear fell upon her. She laid there trembling, unmoving watching the door. She hoped she just imagined the noise. She was motionless, lying there for seven minutes and then she finally relaxes, rolls over, and concentrates on sleeping.

Then she heard the dreaded creek and groan of the stairs once again, the footsteps were coming toward her room. She laid there, eyes shut and body still like a statue. She started praying in her head to God, or anyone out there who will listen. She prayed even though she didn't believe in God and even if there was anyone out there she believed he was to busy for her.

She heard the hands twist the locked doorknob. She heard the deep deranged animal breathing outside her door, as he attempted to force it open to get inside to her. She prayed harder and harder, crying and pleading to anyone out there to save her. The hands pounded on the door and screamed foul words at her. Then they gave up and went back downstairs. She laid there in bed holding her bear, while she shook and sobbed. She still couldn't believe the hands didn't make it in. It was the first night in so many years she had escaped the hands.

The next morning's routine was the same as every other morning. She got up, picked up her father's beer cans from the night before, cooked her breakfast, but one thing was different about this morning. She doesn't feel as depressed or impure this morning. She was so grateful it almost made her feel a feeling she hadn't felt ever since her mother was alive, she almost felt happy.

Once at school, she walked with her head a little higher and the other students taunts seem to bounce off her, completely not affecting her. She even smiled at one other shy girl in class and she had a full conversation with her writing teacher, Mr. Marxton, who was very surprised.

She walked slowly into the therapist's office and sat down in the long, dark chair. She breathed in deeply and then she spoke. Janice told the therapist everything. She told her about that dreadful night from six days after her mother died, about what her father did to her. She told her about the cutting herself, that she had started because she felt like it was all her fault, her mother dying, her father drinking, and the hands coming out at night. She talked about how the cutting made her feel alive, because she normally wanted to be dead or invisible. She looked up at the clock after all this, their hour appointment had gone way over time, even though she felt like she had only been speaking for fifteen minutes. She looked up into the therapist's caring blue eyes, and by the look she gives her, Janice knew it would all be okay. Then as the therapist pulled her in for a much needed hug, Janice finally let the tears slide down her cheeks.

Similar Articles


This article has 2 comments.

Nichols said...
on Feb. 8 2011 at 8:16 pm
This is a good story the grammer is great. This story is well constructed and its not just a story its something that goes on today and maybe after reading this people will stop sayin the hurtful things they say good job!!!!!

on Jan. 19 2011 at 7:40 pm
Miss_Meg BRONZE, Broken Bow, Oklahoma
1 article 0 photos 1 comment

Favorite Quote:
"To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all."
Oscar Wilde

This is my first real story. I would love to hear your feedback and constructive critsism.  Thank you!

MacMillan Books

Aspiring Writer? Take Our Online Course!