(Please note that any and all criticism is appreciated. But also know that the plot itself is not up for reconstruction. This story is the truth, and that is what it will stay. Thanks)
Dad,
I’m seventeen now. I have dark brown hair, almost black, bright green eyes, though everyone swears they’re brown. People don’t look at me clearly, they don’t see me.
Mom yells all the time... I can hear her downstairs coughing, tar coating her lungs, she chokes on her every word.
I miss coming home to the smell of earth; soil and fur. I breathe in and the absence in my lungs threatens to knock me off of my feet.
I could tell you everything that has happened to me; tell you about how every time I close my eyes I see images of the people that left me dancing behind my eyelids. I see you, with your blue eyes and blond hair, your stern expression; a crease in your brow. I see your white t-shirt, stained yellow in the armpits, shredded and overused. I see your ridiculous gray shorts that are more holes than fabric. I see you hunched over the kitchen counter, with your head in your hands and your face red; scolding me, crying for the first time that I’ve seen in my life... I could tell you all of these things... but would you ever take the time to listen?
I want you to know that I didn’t mean to hurt you. I look down at my skin now... my canvas, and see the pain that I put you through. I see the hurt in your eyes slamming into me, reverberating inside of me. But I want you to know that I tried. I tried to be good enough. I strived to be a good daughter, to be something in your eyes. I struggled until the rest of the strength I had in me had depleted. It broke me...
But it wasn’t your fault; my scars remind me that I was the one holding the blade...
I see your reddened face, the veins in your neck, blue, spit accenting every word. I see your hands grabbing me fiercely by the arm, your fingers digging into my skin like talons. But your hands were shaking, not angry, but scared. You tugged back my coat sleeve and threw my arm away from you, disgusted.
You never touched me again after that... not a hug goodnight. Not a pat on the back. Not a slap across the face... You were too scared to touch me neither gently nor harshly. Sometimes I just want to yell at you and beg you to hit me. I see myself at the kitchen table with your books sprawled out in front of you. I’m invisible to you. You continue to work on taxes as I slam my fists into the manilla folders and drag them to the floor. I overturn the table and you sit there dumbfounded, but only for a second. I lower my head, trying to catch my breath. When I look up the table is neat, the paper towers surrounding you.
Invisible... I could scream at the top of my lungs and rip that stupid farming magazine out of your hands, tearing it to shreds like you shredded my soul. And you still wouldn’t give a damn... You’re consumed by everything else and I’m out of breath from screaming.
“Why can’t you see me? I’m right here. I’m trying, dad, I’m trying my best. It’s not good enough...”
“ I can’t tell you about my arms, dad. Dad! Please would you just listen! I can’t breathe.”
“I just wanted you to see me... This is who I am, dad.”
“Dad, I love him! Dad, I love you. Please don’t do this. Please would you just listen to me!”
“ Listen to me! Listen to me! Listen to me!” My blood curdling screams sound like blades of grass under children’s feet.
I’m out of breath... my cheeks burn.
.....
I called the Christmas before last. I talked to everyone. Everyone except you. You didn’t care to talk... you didn’t have time for me... I hung up the phone and cried, dad. You hated when I cried. You’d grimace and then walk towards the door, going out to the feed lot, dumping your fears and insecurities into a five gallon bucket.
I want you to know that I’ve made mistakes. I’ve always made mistakes. I’m a dreamer. I thought that love would last forever... I chased it. I thought that you’d call after I left... I waited by the phone. But waiting for you is like waiting for the rain to fall in a drought... or for the currents to cease in the ocean. I can’t change what I did, and if I could I’m not sure that I’d ever choose the right thing. I’d still choose love, I’d still get my heart broken, and you’d still look at me with disdain...
I used to be the girl that carved love into my skin to eliminate the pressure building inside of me. I used to be the girl that chased love and ended up with infatuation instead. I’ve been so many things... and all of those things have made me who I am now.
I sing, dad. I drum my fingers on my jeans and sing to every song that I hear, just to feel the wind running through me, coursing through my veins like the maroon that fills me now. I laugh, and smile, and get angry, and cry. I scream, and talk, and wish on every star. I can’t say that every time I look in the mirror that I’m fully satisfied, because if that were the case I’d have you standing with me.
I’m seventeen now. I have dark brown hair, almost black, bright green eyes, though everyone swears they’re brown. People don’t look at me clearly, they don’t see me.
-Tylyn
) as the ridiculous thing, in which case it should be "ridiculously gray". But I think you're actually referring to his shorts being in tatters as the ridiculous thing, and I don't think the word "ridiculous" even needs to be mentioned. This is because the underlined part already indirectly shows the MC's opinion.
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