Thankyou so much for reading, Rosey! 
This is the second part of a true story. It needs a lot of work. I know I've alternated between past tense in the first part and present tense in this one. Which one is better?
Broken
I - Tealeaves
They swirl in clear brown liquid. Green-feathered ballerinas waltzing around a ballroom of white china. As the water disappears, they plummet. Forgotten.
She puts a thin finger into the cup and twirls it amongst the withered corpses. Angry voices echo around her in the hollow darkness. She draws her bare legs up, folding them like paper beneath her on the mahogany chair. Sticks, that woman with the crisp uniform had said, inspecting her in the blank white room. Your legs are like sticks.
She winces at the memory, beginning to shake uncontrollably. She claps her hands over her throbbing ears, red from the slap. She tries to forget. The shouting behind her continues, louder and louder every second, shooting through the air like arrows.
“I can’t deal with this, Sarah!”
She had almost forgotten it. Her name. Snapped out like a curse.
She hugs her quaking legs against her tiny chest. She can feel her heartbeat, jerky, fast, without a rhythm.
“Do you hear me, Sarah? I can’t fucking deal with this!”
It's her mother.
She closes her eyes, squeezing them tight until crimson dots appear before her. Still gripping her calves against her, she rocks. Backward...forwards. Backwards...forwards.
Strong, harsh hands grip her protruding shoulders. Shaking her like a rattle – an empty rattle.
Her lips quiver, but she will not cry. She - will - not - cry.
“Do you do this at school, Sarah? Do you? Do the kids make fun of you? They do, don’t they? They’d have to!”
She keeps her eyes shut. Her pale lips attempt to move and she tries to control the panic surging up inside of her, a frantic tornado. Ready to blow her world away.
She can't. She can't keep it in.
She opens her mouth and screams. A scream that wracks her frame and every bone inside her body.
She almost collapses on the floor but is pinned against the wall instead. Forced to listen. Her thumping heart leaps up in her chest, startled. She can feel its beat residing as it flops down gasping like a dying fish.
“Can you see what your shit is doing to us? To you, to me, to Esther?"
She runs to her room. She stares into the long glass mirror, her eyes weaving around the shattered edges.
What is real?
She claws at the surface, wanting to discover what is beyond it. She sees nothing but a pale lie of a girl, putting on a facade each day, hiding behind a tarry smokescreen.
She rushes towards the bed, lying on pale rose sheets. The coolness feels good in contrast to the heat leaking out of her pores. She curls up into the foetal position. She rocks herself like a sad baby in a cold white crib.
Just when she thought she had normality wrapped round her fingers like a twisted ribbon.
Footsteps approach her. A gentle, plump hand touches her juddering shoulder. Sweet words are whispered into her ear.
It's Esther. Her little sister. Seven summers old, but with a wisdom beyond her years.
She lets Esther hold her, comfort her. Though she flinches with the humiliation of it. Her life is upside-down, warped, contorted. She is on the wrong side of the looking glass.
“Shhh. Sarah...it’s okay. It’s going to be alright,” her sister says, smoothing her rumpled dress and drying her tears.
“It’s not. It’s not. It’s not. She hates me. Everyone hates me.”
“She doesn’t hate you, Sarah. She loves you. I love you.”
If Sarah’s eyes had not been swollen shut, she still would not have been able to look her in the face.
The only thing she can do is wail. Breathless, heartbroken, frightened sobs.
Ouch. And this is a true story?
Tealeaves, a metaphor this time. About how they're fine for a while, but then they wilt. (Heh, I tried to read this awhile ago but I was too incoherent to get it....)
Just one thing: The f-word. A piece has to be rated R if it is used.
Thankyou, Kirsten.
I have already expressed my gratitude through the wonders of MSN, but I sayeth again, you're lovely!
x
This is the second part of a true story. It needs a lot of work. I know I've alternated between past tense in the first part and present tense in this one. Which one is better?
I love them both. I can't really choose Sarah 
Broken
I - Tealeaves
They swirl in clear brown liquid. Green-feathered ballerinas waltzing around a ballroom of white china. As the water disappears, they plummet. Forgotten. I absolutely adore this line. It sums up my entire life.
She puts a thin finger into the cup and twirls it amongst the withered corpses. Angry voices echo around her in the hollow darkness. She draws her bare legs up, folding them like paper beneath her on the mahogany chair. Sticks, that woman with the crisp uniform had said, inspecting her in the blank white room. Your legs are like sticks.
She winces at the memory, beginning to shake uncontrollably. She claps her hands over her throbbing ears, red from the slap. She tries to forget. The shouting behind her continues, louder and louder every second, shooting through the air like arrows.
“I can’t deal with this, Sarah!”
She had almost forgotten it. Her name. Snapped out like a curse.
She hugs her quaking legs against her tiny chest. She can feel her heartbeat, jerky, fast, without a rhythm. For some reason I utterly adore that description. What can I say? It just fits.
“Do you hear me, Sarah? I can’t fucking deal with this!”
It's her mother.
She closes her eyes, squeezing them tight until crimson dots appear before her. Still gripping her calves against her, she rocks. Backward...forwards. Backwards...forwards.
Strong, harsh hands grip her protruding shoulders. Shaking her like a rattle – an empty rattle.
Her lips quiver, but she will not cry. She - will - not - cry.
“Do you do this at school, Sarah? Do you? Do the kids make fun of you? They do, don’t they? They’d have to!”
She keeps her eyes shut. Her pale lips attempt to move and she tries to control the panic surging up inside of her, a frantic tornado. Ready to blow her world away.I love this sentence Sarah. It's magical.
She can't. She can't keep it in.
She opens her mouth and screams. A scream that wracks her frame and every bone inside her body.
She almost collapses on the floor but is pinned against the wall instead. Forced to listen. Her thumping heart leaps up in her chest, startled. She can feel its beat residing as it flops down gasping like a dying fish.
“Can you see what your shit is doing to us? To you, to me, to Esther?"
I'm not sure, maybe here you should have:
Can you see what your shit is doing to us? To you? To me? To Esther? But either way works, I think it's just a matter of preference
She runs to her room. She stares into the long glass mirror, her eyes weaving around the shattered edges.
What is real? I completely love it when you throw in these questions, I adore it.
She claws at the surface, wanting to discover what is beyond it. She sees nothing but a pale lie of a girl, putting on a facade each day, hiding behind a tarry smokescreen. I know exactly. exactly how you feel
She rushes towards the bed, lying on pale rose sheets. The coolness feels good in contrast to the heat leaking out of her pores. She curls up into the foetal position. She rocks herself like a sad baby in a cold white crib.
Just when she thought she had normality wrapped round her fingers like a twisted ribbon.Imagery again is perfect Sarah.
Footsteps approach her. A gentle, plump hand touches her juddering shoulder. Sweet words are whispered into her ear.
It's Esther. Her little sister. Seven summersI love the way you use summers instead of years, so much more ... original. old, but with a wisdom beyond her years.
She lets Esther hold her, comfort her. Though she flinches with the humiliation of it. Her life is upside-down, warped, contorted. She is on the wrong side of the looking glass.
“Shhh. Sarah...it’s okay. It’s going to be alright,” her sister says, smoothing her rumpled dress and drying her tears.
“It’s not. It’s not. It’s not. She hates me. Everyone hates me.”
“She doesn’t hate you, Sarah. She loves you. I love you.” That bit makes me want to cry. It is so perfect Sarah. Captures the moment.
If Sarah’s eyes had not been swollen shut, she still would not have been able to look her in the face.
The only thing she can do is wail. Breathless, heartbroken, frightened sobs.impeccable ending
[i]Sarah. Sarah. Sarah. Is there any point in me reviewing your stuff? Methinks not. I never offer you any help because you're so amazing. Oh well, I'll just have to work on making you feel happy instead Flawless again Sarah, I love this. Hahah all the words I know I couldn't think of a single word to describe you other than amazing. You are Sarah. Anyway, I'm off again, to read more as you'd expect. x
I'm back Castles.
They swirl in clear brown liquid. Green-feathered ballerinas waltzing around a ballroom of white china. As the water disappears, they plummet.
She puts a thin finger into the cup and twirls it amongst the withered corpses.
She rushes towards the bed, lying on pale rose sheets. The coolness feels good in contrast to the heat leaking out of her pores.
Her lips quiver, but she will not cry. She - will - not - cry.
“It’s not. It’s not. It’s not. She hates me. Everyone hates me.”
“She doesn’t hate you, Sarah. She loves you. I love you.”
Thankyou so much for reading, Angel.
You're all too too lovely for persevering with this.
xxx
Hello again dear,
My, this story is touching my heart with its tiny cool fingers. I can feel it and the way you write is so passionate. I really feel like crying now but aside from all the sadness I felt, I must say that I like your style. Its short and simple but its very powerful. You use the write about poetic-ness and the right about of words to get your feelings across.
Favorite part:
“It’s not. It’s not. It’s not. She hates me. Everyone hates me.”
“She doesn’t hate you, Sarah. She loves you. I love you.”
If Sarah’s eyes had not been swollen shut, she still would not have been able to look her in the face.
The only thing she can do is wail. Breathless, heartbroken, frightened sobs.
Woah. It's quite depressing to know it's based on a true story – your story, I suppose, the same name and all. I almost wouldn't like to keep reading, I don't want to know what horrors you've been through, but I know I will, because you write well.
Breathless, heartbroken, frightened sobs.
Thankyou so much, ashleyee. You are being so motivating, I honestly didn't think it was that good, and you have me such a huge confidence boost.
Thankyou
xxx
Very passionate. This story is touching me. I’m not sure how to explain it but I feel for Sarah like I would for someone real. You are painting her so three-dimensional that I can image that she is real. Very well done!
My favorite line this time would have to be:
She is on the wrong side of the looking glass.
She curls up into the foetal position.
A gentle, plump hand touches her juddering shoulder.
I know I've alternated between past tense in the first part and present tense in this one. Which one is better?
Thanks very much, xDox and JCObessed.
xDox - your detailed download was amazingly helpful. And you are very encouraging. Thanks a lot. Youve reviewed so much of my stuff.
JCObssessed - I know, I've really detatched myself from the MC! I'm working on reintroducing emotions though. Thanks for pointing it out. Thankyou
Sapphire - Aww, thanks so much for reviewing yet again another of my stories. You've been one of the most helpful people to me on here and I really appreciate it. The things you say are always so true
Alainna - Thanks very much, you've been incredibly motivating and your nitpicks helped me no end. Your comments were all very helpful. Thankyou so much.
Thanks everyone!
Keep writing
--Sarah
You have a lot of the same issues I pointed out in the prologue. Something I'm noticing is that this is a very traumatic story, and seeing as it's true it has to be hard for you to write. I understand that completely. Sometimes writing can be a way to make sense of everything and get it out of your system or come to terms with things.
I've never been one to criticize emotion, but the problem is that there is very little emotion at all. You've detached yourself from the main character, and therefore detached the readers. All of your emotion is in the details, you describe the character doing things that would evoke or include emotion, but it's never followed up on. It results in a very empty sort of story.
There are ways to show emotion in third person, even if it is very difficult. You've taken on a very difficult project. True story, third person, and even a difficult style to write in. Despite the obstacles, you're doing a great job so far, but I think you can do even better.
Read some books in third person and take notice to the way they convey emotion and still use the characters.
Good job so far! Keep up the great work
-JC
Thankyou so much
You won't believe how helpful you've been.
Thanks again.
Sarah
xxx
Again, another well written piece.
To answer your question, I think you're better off writing in past tense. It's easier to make mistakes when writing in present tense and personally, I just prefer it. I think you managed to make present tense work here, but you need to think of which one you are more comfortable working in permanently.
They swirl in clear brown liquid. Green-feathered ballerinas waltzing around a sphere of white china. As the water disappears, they plummet. Forgotten.
She tries to forget, forget, forget
“I’m going to kill you if you don’t stop this.”
She precipitates towards the bed, lying on pale rose sheets.
smooth her rumpled dress and drying her tears.
They swirl in clear brown liquid. Green-feathered ballerinas waltzing around a sphere of white china. As the water disappears, they plummet. Forgotten.
Her lips quiver, but she will not cry. She...will...not...cry.
She runs to her room. She stares into the long glass mirror, her eyes weaving around the shattered edges.
What is real? (I think it would be effective to take a new paragraph here.)
She claws at the surface, wanting to discover what is beyond it. She sees nothing but a pale lie of a girl, living a facade each day, (You can’t ‘live’ a façade but you can ‘put on’ a façade.) hiding behind a tarry smokescreen.
She [s]precipitates[/s] (that word doesn’t really work at all!) towards the bed, lying on pale rose sheets. The coolness feels good in contrast to the heat leaking out of her pores. She curls up into the foetal position. She rocks herself like a sad baby in a cold white crib.
She lets Esther hold her, comfort her, though she flinches with the humiliation of it. Her life is upside-down, warped, contorted. She's on the wrong side of the looking glass.
“Shhh. Sarah... it’s okay. It’s going to be alright.” Her sister [s]says softly,[/s] smoothes her rumpled dress and [s]drying[/s] dries her tears.
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