Deep Rouge. That was the color of the cuts. The color of the gashes. The scars we're pink and yellow. But the cuts, they we're new. They were deep rouge. White and blue lights danced on the light pink walls that surrounded my bed. The sound of an electric guitar banged against the walls. The bass was loud, shaking the bed. The pink camouflage was stained with silver tears. This felt like the beginning of a very hard story. Although, for me, this was no story. I pulled my sleeves tighter into the sweaty palms of my hands. My dark black mascara streaked my cheeks, leaving long marks. My little sister, only nine years old, clutched my arm tighter will every yell. The banging on the door, it was loud. A few more tears flowed from my dark abysmal eyes. “Do you have any guns?” They said, before even walking through the glass door. “Of course not.” My mother replied, as if shocked they had even asked. They walk in, their heavy boots hitting the ground like lightning on a open field in late summer. A deep pain struck me in my chest. They were going to ask questions, and I was going to have to answer. I had my bedroom door locked, and the banging on it made it shake. I hated the feeling of shaking. I went to the door. Unlocked the lock, my fingers shook still. I open the door, and the officer walks in. Well, actually it was two. One walked in, asking my sister to come with him. I hesitated, then hugged her before she left. The other officer sat on my bed. He sat, on my bed. On MY bed. Instantly, anger shot through me. Through my veins. And I knew this was going to be a very hard night. With a very hard end. More later than soon, he was done asking me questions. And the officers, we're settling a fight. I laid down, grabbed my teddy bear, and curled into a sleep. I wanted to forget it all. If only I had known, that in three years, my parents would be done with their divorce. This is my story of what happened the night the police were called. I hope no one has to go through what I went through.
January 27, 2011