Young Writers Society

Life, to me it is the dizzying affect you feel during an altercation with a loved one, It is the feeling of the wind, scratching at your clothing, pulling you away from your goals. It is a Childs eighth birthday, when her own Mother forgets to purchase a cake, it is disappointment, knocking on you’re front door at seven thirty every morning, waking you from a slumber filled with haunted dreams and recollections of missed opportunities; a reminder of your lacking qualities, the bindings that hold you to reality. To me, life is a cruel punishment, in place to satisfy some higher beings fantasies of crying school girls, Dreams torn and discarded, life is but a joke.

It is during times like these, the moments when I can place my feelings, collect my scattered thoughts and piece together the life I lead, the life of a forgotten child, a mysterious lover, a disappointing friend that I resent my Mother the most, when I despise every fibre of her being, It is during times like these that I feel her watching over me, smiling smugly as I stumble through life, living the collection of lies she left trailing behind her, picking up the pieces of the life she shattered with one single blow, recreating the person she moulded to become herself.

My name is Ariana, not that it matters, people never call me by my name. They snarl vulgar nicknames behind me, whisper vindictive lies behind cupped hands. I live the life my Mother moulded for me, Created with her own cruel intentions of gripping me to a life tarnished with her name, holding me to an existence stained with her creation.

I am yet to reach the age of seventeen; I doubt that I will ever see the eighteenth year since my birth. This for me means the beginning of the end; this for me means the end to the pitiless treatment I have withstood since birth, since being conceived by my mother, the daughter of the devil.

My locks, the colour of copper hang wilted around my face, framing the replication of my mother that hangs across me, an instant accusation of her blood running through me, her life flowing throughout my being.

My mind, a place untouched, occupied with memories of the past, incapable of grasping a future. My undoing, without the mind filled with memories of a broken heart I would be but a normal teenage girl, my hormones intense, living life for lust.

I am yet to understand what sets me apart, my Mother, yes a malicious construction but must I carry her gauntlet? Her life is set apart from mine, one canvas angry with destruction mine beside her own, left with remnants of her life yet blank, still awaiting its own story.

This is still an idea in the works... just wondering if i should give it a go or not..thanks everybody