Listen or turn away…
Silence is golden; I knew of no-one who’d try to engage or talk to me. "Do you ever feel like people pass through you as if you're an embodiment of air? 'Human,' yes, but you can't be seen or touched. You're just a surface, flesh without purpose."You could position yourself in the midst of a bustling town; right where cars glide across a surface, slowly trudging forward one full turn of the wheel at a time no one would notice you. They'd keep piercing through your scars (things that are slowly decaying you away, aging you every second, with every breath taken) tiring them, piece by piece Slowly… Until you fell apart-nothing was left of you, not even a memory. My scars mark me as a person, branded onto my surface it seems: at first sight people can tell something is wrong- something wrong with me. I'm no human, I have no shape, my surface doesn't do as it's supposed to do, all that I can do is listen.
I’m a disease; the sort of thing that makes someone have the urge to cover their mouth, as if I give off such a bad feeling that it diffused swiftly like a bad smell. I can make people shed tears of not joy from seeing me, but sorrowfulness that I can never fully understand. Why do people feel sorry for me? Some have hurt themselves because of me, if only my voice worked.
Under my bed; that's where I go to hide. Carefully, I place my fragile pile of flesh under the bed- I'm safe here. No one loves me, not even the night sky, the only one I can talk to. But I can't speak. The moon is the only thing that seems to understand me, but he doesn't always listen. There are times where my world is full of music- it thrives with color and musical notes of gaiety, the calling of the birds- I hear them call out my name. There's another world where I can hear all words: if that's coming from the mouths of humans or even animals, every organism has their own language, I've heard it. This world is beautiful but also like a needle to the throat. Every sound is piercing, one blade at a time, one limb, and soon I'm nothing. I may be jealous of not being able to speak but I don't know, all I know is that the world can kill me easily. My last world is my world. It's silent, just me and my thoughts. I can't hear anybody or anything. I’m most at peace here.
My scars aren't what makes me me. I can listen or choose to turn away, I can close my ears and make all sounds dissipate into the thin air. Silence is what makes me me…
this is my short story of a girl’s inner thoughts and feelings when she feels alone and worthless.
Points: 70
Reviews: 5
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