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Diary Entry 1 rough draft

RedSmiles · 2009-12-31T01:39:32Z

I am but the remaining pulp of a beaten, abused, abandoned, starving girl. This house is dark and it smells of dust and dogs. The amber, square inch tiles are cold on my legs. I’m sitting on the floor, near a hard wood staircase with a rickety old banister that leads up to my bedroom. The happy purple bedroom. Mommy and I painted it. We swirled clouds onto its ceiling, and used sponges to add dark pink angels around the top of its walls. I helped mommy paint its purple and pink dresser and vanity to match. I don’t deserve any of those nice things, I’m such a bad little girl, I remind myself. So I sit, in late December, on the cold foyer floor while the draft coming from underneath the front door gives me goose flesh. The Christmas tree is still up, and all the ornaments are still hanging. The presents are opened, but no one is playing with all the new toys. Where is my younger brother? The thought flickers through my numb mind. He’s probably somewhere mourning quietly by himself. Our father is in the living room sitting on the old sectional corner sofa. In the dark. He’s staring at the TV, even though its screen is blank, tears stream gently down his face. Our old, friendly dachshund is resting her head on his lap. There’s a ripping pain through my chest. The pain has long fingers that reach for my heart and it leaves me winded so that I can’t even cry. I don’t want it to, but my mind is wandering to yesterday morning. ‘Mommy, please stay here with us, we’ll have a party for you!’ I’m begging ‘Dakota! Quit pouting, you’ll upset your brother. It’s only a week. I deserve a week away with friends for the New Year.’ The lie is in her eyes, and I can tell by their fights this week that she’s not really coming back. ‘Look at him, Mommy! He’s already upset, and it’s not me. I’m not upsetting him, you are. We don’t want you to leave.’ I’m pleading, but she doesn’t look at him before she turns her back and walks away from us. I bury my face in the golden rod sleeping bag that’s wrapped in my arms. It smells like basements, and without thinking I release a violent, shaking, bright red scream. It’s the only noise in this house, and the echo it leaves behind sounds lonely. A matted white poodle sprints to my lap, pushing and burrowing into the sleeping bag looking for my hands. While I’m reaching for him, I hear my brother’s footsteps in the stairwell. Finally, the tears begin to flow, burning my large brown eyes and warming my young red cheeks. As the tears fall, my body shudders with my sobbing, and my hands grope for the comfort of the white puppy in my lap. My brother is turning the door knob so that he can join me in the foyer while my father approaches, leaving his perch on the couch to sit next to me on the floor. The man picks me up and pulls me into his lap, embracing me with his arms and with his comfort. “Come here,” He whispers with tears in his eyes. He reaches an arm out for my brother, inviting him to join us. “It’s going to be okay.” The small warm body joins me between my father’s knees. His eyes are red like mine, and his checks are stained with tears. The blond hair on his head is untamed, and the cloths he’s wearing are too small and wrinkled. We curl together and cry for our loss, rejection, abandonment, and neglect as our family of four unites to become a broken family of three.

RedSmiles

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Points 3524

Reviews 32

Thu Jan 07, 2010 10:34 pm

RedSmiles says... · Thu Jan 07, 2010 10:34 pm

Why, thank you, HorseLover! I think you're awesome as well

My Bright Red Scream 3 still hasn't gotten any reviews

! If someone has time I'd love to get your opinion on it!

RedSmiles

My laughter is of musical melodies. My screams are of blood.
-Carly

Check out my new piece, and don't forget to let me know what you think! http://www.youngwriterssociety.com/topic63365.html

Quote

Patience is the strength of the weak, impatience is the weakness of the strong.
— Immanuel Kant, Philosopher

Diary Entry 1 rough draft

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