Help Me

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Okay so this is something I wrote a while ago
Not really sure what this would go under
give me your honest opinion on this please :]

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Help Me;



I remember it like yesterday.

There I sat. Crying for all the nonexistant agony.

Crying for the pain that I was not feeling.

Crying for all of the cuts, bruises I knew were not there.


I remember feeling helpless. I couldn't do anything to help. She was the one it happened to,

not I.

She was the one who had been raped.


When she walked out of those white hospital doors she was not the same person she had been before.

She was cold.

Dishearted even.


I tried to break through her shell. I tried to unlock the chains she put around her heart.

As her sister I felt it as my duty to do something, anything.


I tried day after day to get through to her.

Each day she would just dig deeper into herself.


One night. Months later. I was asleep in my cozy bed when I heard my door creep open.

It was her. My sister. Not the one who had gone inside herself. Not the person she had been before, but she was close.

She was almost there.


She walked over to my bedside and said one word. The first word she had said in a long time.

"Help."
"The best thing about tonight's that we're not fighting. Could it be that we have been this way before"
-Fall for You by Secondhand Serenade




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Gender Female
Points 890
Reviews 89
This is pretty good. There are a couple of mistakes, however.

not I.


If you're going to have this as part of the previous sentence please keep it with the previous sentence, instead of putting it on the next line. If you are going to keep it this way, capitalize the n in "not".

Dishearted even.


There should be a comma after "dishearted".

I get the impression you want this to be really meaningful, but it didn't get me that way. If you want it to reach more people you need more descriptive language and more emotion. Not exactly the easiest topic, but it's got a lot of emotion in it, which you need to put in this story.
Does anyone else smell books when they read them?



For a short space of time I remained at the window watching the pallid lightnings that played above Mont Blanc and listening to the rushing of the Arve, which pursued its noise way beneath. The same lulling sounds acted as a lullaby to my too keen sensations; when I placed my head upon my pillow, sleep crept over me; I felt it as it came and blessed the giver of oblivion.
— Mary Shelley, Frankenstein