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Hurt- A Story About Bullying
Blood trickled steadily down the child's chin, but she didn't even flinch. Her stony cold eyes that had been fixed on her attacker filled with hurt and hatred. It seemed almost like a staring match, until the girl dropped her gaze to the floor, turned, and walked away.
* * * * *
As the girl walked into the toilets, she had encountered numerous people wanting to know why her cheeks and forehead bled, but she'd shook them off. There were three females chatting noisily as she walked in. The girl knew two of them, but the third was a new child. Nevertheless, she lowered her head for you never could be too sure with people. The new child smiled and looked as if she was going to say something, but her newfound 'friends' broke in first.
'Oh, look at her! She's such a stupid slag, no one knows what she's going to do in here, and I don't really want to find out,' jeered one of the two, pulling her tongue out childishly at the girl. The new child turned around to face her friends, horrified that they could be so cruel. 'Don't worry,' the girl comforted. 'We all Iknow/I and you need to be warned. Just keep out of her way!'
The young child blinked as blood dripped down her eye, and little droplets slowly plopped onto the floor. She raised her face, and glared at all three of them. 'I'd be most obliged if you left me alone.' The two girls raised their eyebrows, whilst the third looked uneasy. She sighed, using her only weapon that didn't portray her particularly nicely, but it got rid of them. 'Go away, or else I'll have to demonstrate my slagginess in front of you, and turn you into the aforementioned slag, even thought it is a fact that she doesn't exist, and you are entirely misinformed.'
The three girls scampered immediately, just as a bell began to cling through the school, signifying the beginning of afternoon lessons.
The girl ignored the bell, just stared at her reflection in the mirror. She watches several more drops of blood glide down her face, before wiping it gently with some wet toilet paper from a cubicle. She didn't bother with plasters, just held the toilet paper there until the blood had stopped flowing, then removed it. She was used to this, she was used to pain.
She heard whistling from outside the door of the toilets, and slipped into a cubicle. She sat down on a closed seat, and pulled up a sleeve. She stared at the soft flesh of her arm, before reaching into her pocket and revealing a knife. She pressed the blade against her skin, and cut three words into it, before underlining it and watching the letters well up red from blood.
'I hate you'. The words came up as blood welled up from the cuts. She stared at the crimson liquid and let several drops of blood fall onto her pale school shirt, before realizing what she was meant to be doing. She pulled more toilet paper out of the dispenser and wrapped it around her arm as a makeshift bandage. She took another piece of toilet paper to wipe the blood off her knife, before slipping it back into her pocket. Finally she took a deep breath, put her head in her hands and dissolved into tears. She cried as silently as she could and tried to stop, but the tears just kept flowing. Eventually, she cried herself to sleep, as uncomfortable as her seating position was.
* * * * *
Memories are evil. It was one thing the girl had always said, and most people had thought she was crazy as their memories were nothing but good. However, the child had a great reason for hating her memories, but feared telling anyone in case they hated her, or thought she was playing some kind of sick joke. Memories can be seen straight as spawn from the devil.
* * * * *
She was lying on her bed, crying. Loudly. She was extremely ashamed of this action, but had done nothing wrong to cry about. However, the girl was blaming herself for everything, even things like living that she couldn't help, and peoples lives that she'd made a difference in where unknown to her. She didn't know how great she was, and that was her only crime causing her the distress.
A white-hot pain came across her lower back, as a leather belt was whacked at it, treated as a whip. The girl let out a small whimper and more tears emitted from her eyes, but she made no sign that she was in pain. It was horribly unfair. If she made noise from pain, the man, her father, would seriously slaughter her. If she didn't, he'd hit harder saying it wasn't hurting her enough. There was no way she could win. She was so used to pain now, it was why she hadn't cried at school as received her wounds.
The pain, the pain. the image. it scared her so much. She twitched on the toilet seat, rolling over, and the image shifted into a different one.
Being pushed around at school, her limp body shoved between four people in a tight circle. They found it fun, humiliating and hurting her, and she just stood there. Stony eyed. Not protesting; not saying anything. Taking her punishment for living.
She must have moved around again, because the scene once again shifted into another, final, darker scene. Her father was throwing things at her mother who was on the floor, crying, protecting her head with her hands to no avail. Pieces of glass cut the woman as the man blindly threw objects at her, before picking up a video camera, and slamming her on the head with it. A massive dent appeared on the camera, and the man grinned down at the woman, whose final breath had already been taken as a pool of crimson emerged from the wound to her head. Her father cackled manically.
Her biggest mistake in life was what happened next. He'd never have known she knew, but as the door closed with a slight click, the man turned around and frowned at the bedroom door of his daughter, who was currently only three years old. His eyes grew extremely cold. He knew that she knew, and she'd have to pay for that.
* * * * *
When the girl finally awoke, it was the end of the day. Children coming into the toilets chatting noisily told her this, and she ran off to her house as fast as she could. She hoped her father wasn't in a manic mood, as she didn't think she could take it. However, as soon as she walked through the door she was told of his mood. Smashed glass littered the floor, and the man stood with a wicked glitter in his eyes, laughing at his daughter as if it was joke, although he wielded a rusty knife within his grasp. He raised to the air, and whispered hoarsely, 'hello, my Idear/I'. The sarcasm ran through the air, and she'd finally had enough.
Her last action was the fatal one. She screamed. Her fathers face changed from hateful into pure menace, as he lunged the knife at her chest, trying to lodge it somewhere near her heart or between her ribs, anywhere that would hurt her so badly she would die. A look of terror flew upon the girls face, and the scream ended as the girl collapsed, dying as a coward and as someone who couldn't even live without blame for something or other; dying as a wimp and as someone who all generations would laugh at; dying as the self that she loathed