I Remember

Good Morning/Afternoon/Evening/Night(whichever one it is in your part of the world),

Hi! I'm here to leave a quick review!!!

First Impression: Well this was quite a sad little story. Showing that was perhaps once happy but is now question everything about themselves and thinking all the wrong things about themselves in literally all the areas. Well you definitely do a good job portraying that.

Anyway let's get right to it,

I remember that it hurt.

Waking up hurt.

It all seemed like a chore of sorts now; life. It didn’t seem like there was anything, or anyone, left. The same, useless pattern continuously repeating itself: never changing…never ending. I was laid out on the floor of my minimalistic styled bedroom, wishing for something. Anything. Staring up at the ceiling my hands would make the same movements along the white carpet they’d been doing for the last hour; up, down, circle, repeat.

My father had always taught me to pay attention to detail; despite him never being around, I’d taken this information on board. Stolen it, I like to think, for my own. My very own secret weapon against the obstacles in life I would face.

I still remember the day he’d told me about this vital key. I was four years old. Chubby, stupid, oblivious…happy. We were standing in the playground near my house; it was cold. Autumn. My favourite season was autumn because of the colours it brought to dreary side of Cornwall. Orange; brown; green; yellow – they’d all gather on my windowsill like an audience waiting for a highly anticipated performance. I’d always seen my life like that; a performance. That’s probably where I took a wrong turn.

Growing up was harder than I’d expected, and school didn’t make it any easier. Large, older kids would stare down at me as I quickly attempted to make my escape through winding corridors; the corners of cold, metal lockers scratching at my skis n as I ran through a sea of upper class men. They were the predators and I was an unworthy prey.

“Dinner!” I hear my mother call from downstairs. Only she doesn’t call. I only think she does. Mother has been dead for a year now; only I can’t seem to let her go. Everyone else has. Aunt Jessie never speaks about her – it’s as though she was never here, and that makes me angry.

How does a person go from being so loved, so treasured, to…nothing?

That’s when I realise that I’m still laying on my floor. I think its time to get up, so I do. It takes a lot of effort to stand when all you can think about is laying down forever. Everything is more difficult now, ever since I was diagnosed the world seems like a different place to me.

“Pay attention to detail.” I repeat this to myself as I stand. I look down my pale, hairless chest and sigh. Cautiously I raise my head to look into my full body mirror. I stand naked. Vulnerable. I start from my feet.

My toes are odd, I think. Slightly arched pointed at an odd angle. My feet show protruding veins from where I’ve been stood for a strenuous amount of time. The light blue lines slightly visible underneath my skin. My legs have a strange shape too. Not large, but not skinny either. In the middle. The hair on them begins dark around my ankles but as I look up slightly they seem to get thinner – disperse around my thighs. Above my thighs I can see my hipbones jutting out a little bit, not too much. A trail of hair from my lower stomach to my belly button is visible but I don’t spend much time looking at that. The next feature is my chest. I don’t have ‘abs’ or anything as impressive as that because I don’t care. I see no reason to make myself look the best that I can if all I am, all I ever will be, is invisible.

The next part is the worst. Slowly, reluctantly, I will myself to guide my eyes to rest on my face. My eyes are an ugly grey colour: they look distant and boring. My nose, I feel, is far to small for my face…it’s round, shaped slightly like a button. My mouth is too wide, and when I smile the gaps in my teeth show. Imperfection after imperfection. It’s one of the reasons I refuse to smile. That, and I can’t bring myself to. I gently flinch as I look at my hair. In an attempt to stand out about a month ago I’d decided, recklessly, to dye it an off-brown colour; thinking it would do my pale skin some good. I was wrong. The short strands of hair tickle my eyelashes slightly as I ruffle it in front of my eyes, blinking rapidly as a piece enters my eyeball. Eyes watering, I compose myself.

A final look at myself before I decide to get changed.

I remember that it hurt.

Hi Ella!

So I really liked this story. You kept the reader's in suspension very well. It kept me wanting to read more and to find out more. I want to know more about this person. Why did her father tell her to pay attention to details? Was he alluding to something more in the plot? How did the mother's death affect the father? I know we hear about the Aunt's reaction and how the MC reacts to her Aunt's reaction. Is the reason "that it hurt" is because of her mother's death?

I really am curious. You portray emotions very well but I believe you could do better with it. Expand on it, lets say. Why was the MC targeted by the older kids? What reason did they go after her?

You describe well and I couldn't find any spelling mistakes or anything wrong with your grammar. But I hope you do well and I look forward to reading more from you!

Sincerely,
Soulkana

Hi EllaJasmine, Amindor here.
This short story is great, and I really enjoyed reading it. It has suspense, and most good traits of a wonderful story, but I do, of course, have some concerns, and then some compliments.

The story has great detail, but you might want to make the vocabulary more, I think, seizing for the reader's attention.

Some sentences I see might need to be revised, for a few of them are more like phrases than sentences.

What exactly is the narrator diagnosed with? The reader might want more of a clear vision to imagine that in the story.

What hurt, exactly? I love how you said that in the story, because it defines something, but what hurt when he woke up? What was it?

The description of autumn is beautiful, and I truly do love it. Autumn is my favorite season.

I think you should add more into the story. When is this? How old is he? What's happening? It would make things more clear.

I love this story, and I can't wait to read more in the future.

I like it. Yes, there is some work to be done, but I like it.

I'm new here, and I don't really know what to explain, but the girl before me has put it into words better than I ever could honestly. Maybe you could go over it again and take out the few sentences that aren't really needed?

I didn't feel as if the first paragraph was entirely needed.

"My father had always taught me to pay attention to detail;" This would have been better say if you'd said, "My father had given me advice in the rare moments he was around;"

"Stolen it, I like to think, for my own." This could use revising.

What was it he'd said to her?

I like the description of the leaves. Mostly because Autumn is my favorite season, you did a good job with this.

"That's probably where I took a wrong turn." This can be omitted.

"Growing up was harder than expected." This should be omitted as the following sentence doesn't work well with it.

The paragraph following doesn't flow that easy. It needs revising. I'd give more reason but it's a bit much. Other readers will no doubt agree.

What was the diagnosis? Is it an eating problem? Is is depression? Is it both? The readers need this clarified.

The title feels more as if I'm about to read poetry. This might have even worked better as such.