Bobby Pendragon's adventures through the flumes toward another world came to an end as the bus reached my stop. I slowly gathered my things as my face turned redder than a cherry. I try to focus on something besides the looks crossing my path. I didn't wear the right clothes, I didn't have the right hair, I was an outsider. I finished my journey through Tumble Road and stepped off the bleak, rubber steps which was my serenity. The peace was gone.
It was so beautiful out, but not as beautiful as gum covered seats. There I was safe. Here, where the birds were singing, the sun smiling, I had no hideout here.
Maybe I could go for a walk. Press reality on pause, play a moment of fantasy. Escaping myself seemed like an intriguing idea. Just go across the road...and walk. It's not like my mother would care...she might even be grateful not to deal with me for a while.
I take a step. Nothing. Then another. Then another the--
"Where do you think you're going?" Great. So much for three times the charm.
"Out." I begin to take another chance to escape with a brisker pace, but once again reality plays. I wanted to fight for my remote control.
"Oh, no, you're not. Get in this house." She presses play for the final time. I eject the DVD on fantasy...maybe I could watch it later. As I walk in, I'm hit by a foul stench.
My mom doesn't clean, I have to. Although, most nights I'm so broken I just lay there in the middle of it all.
I start to clean before a hurricane huddles closer. It's not as bad as usual..but what's that stench?
"What's that smell?" I choose my words carefully, the women has a temper.
"Oh," The women that was my parental figure let out a gut wrenching burp before continuing. Ladylike. "I spilt milk on the chair a few hours ago. You can clean it up later."
Throwing the wrappers and beer bottles on the floor away, I hurried to my room. Eager to escape the wrath of my mother.
My four year old fantasy room. I was obsessed with Barbie and Dora at the time. My sheets had Dora's face on them. Dora and Boots smiled at me, as if they had something to smile about.
My mom walked into the room, her prescence made even Barbie's confident shoulders slouch. Oh, joy. I wait for the bomb to blow.
"It's your fault!" I knew what she was talking about. For years, she told me the same thing everyday. She blamed me because I survived the accident and dad didn't...I was in the car with him the day it happened. I saw him die.
"It wasn't." I knew what would come next.
"Everyday I have to stare in the eye what was his face! His eyes! I have to stare at death." With a scream, her hand swept across my face. Then, I screamed.
The burn of the sudden strike left behind a trail of evidence. It hurt, the tears were pouring. This made her angrier. This bomb was big enough to start a war...
The words formed in my mouth before I could stop them. "Why'd you do that?!"
"Because!" Tears were streaming from my mothers eyes. I didn't know how to stop them. I didn't know how to stop this..
I wondered if Dora could talk, would she defend me? Would she be frowning and violently cursing in Spanish? I would.
My mom left the room, but Barbie didn't prop herself back up. I wouldn't blame her after the scene she'd witnessed.
...........................
A slap in the face,
A punch in the chest,
A fall to the ground,
No one there,
To witness the sound,
No one to see,
The Scent of Desperation,
Covering my fresh layer,
Of blood, sweat, and tears.
............................
Together we can end the endless story of pain for these children. If you or someone you know is being abused, call the NSPCC. Say NO to Child Abuse.
About Me
- Emily
- ~Cinderella walked on broken glass, Sleeping Beauty let a whole lifetime pass, Belle fell in love with a hideous beast, Pocahontas risked her life for a feast, Jasmine could have had anyone instead - she chose a poor man, Ariel walked on land all for love, all for life. It was all about blood, sweat, and tears because love is about facing your biggest fears ♥
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Monday, October 25, 2010
Scent of Desperation Pages 6-8
Bobby Pendragon's adventure through the flumes and sweet, gentle, music came to an end as I reached my stop. I slowly gather my things, my face turning redder than a cherry, trying to focus on anything but the looks shot at me. Walking down the isle of taunting feet, I could almost hear their squeaky voices going, "Watch your step!" and "Did you know fall was my favorite season?". I quietly, but painfully shuffle towards the end of my journey. Was it a colorful, the language of kids these days is unbearable.
I stepped off the bus and my eyes adjusted to the sun's brightness. It was so beautiful out, the were singing a cheery tune, the sun was shining. I could almost see it's bright teeth flashing as if it had heard a great joke, wide and natural was that smile.
Maybe I'll go for a walk, escaping my reality seemed like an enticing idea. Just go across the road and walk, it's not like she'd care. She might even be grateful. I take a step...nothing. Another. Then another and-
"Where do you think you're going?" Great. So much for three times the charm.
"Out." I begin to take another chance at temporary freedom with a new, brisk pace, but once again the remote is set on pause. I wanted to fight over that remote control.
"Oh, not you're not. Get in. Now." Stop. Eject. Maybe I'd watch that movie another time.
As I walk in I'm hit. Hit by a big truckload of rotting stench. My mom doesn't clean. I have to, but most nights I'm so sore I just... can't. I just have to lay on the floor after a daily scene to stay sane. I start to clean before a hurrican hurdles. It's not that bad, not like it usually is. Just a few wrappers, but what is that stench?
"What's that smell?" Choose your words carefully, Miranda.
"Oh." The women that gave birth to me let out a deep, gut wrenching burp before continuing. Classy. "I spilt some milk on that chair a few hours ago. You can clean it up." I look at my chair, the one that was covered in Toy Story but now sat with many stains...I think she does it on purpose. Didn't I tell you?
Throwing the wrappers away, I pick up my tattered school books and shuffle my glum self into my bedroom. My four- year- old room. I was obsessed with Barbie, Dora, any cartoon. My sheets were Dora, no kidding. Dora and Boots smile at me with their robotic eyes and exxagerated smile. As if there was anything to be happy about.
My mom walks in the room, her presence even makes Barbie's confident shoulders slouch. Oh, joy. I wait for the bomb to blow.
I stepped off the bus and my eyes adjusted to the sun's brightness. It was so beautiful out, the were singing a cheery tune, the sun was shining. I could almost see it's bright teeth flashing as if it had heard a great joke, wide and natural was that smile.
Maybe I'll go for a walk, escaping my reality seemed like an enticing idea. Just go across the road and walk, it's not like she'd care. She might even be grateful. I take a step...nothing. Another. Then another and-
"Where do you think you're going?" Great. So much for three times the charm.
"Out." I begin to take another chance at temporary freedom with a new, brisk pace, but once again the remote is set on pause. I wanted to fight over that remote control.
"Oh, not you're not. Get in. Now." Stop. Eject. Maybe I'd watch that movie another time.
As I walk in I'm hit. Hit by a big truckload of rotting stench. My mom doesn't clean. I have to, but most nights I'm so sore I just... can't. I just have to lay on the floor after a daily scene to stay sane. I start to clean before a hurrican hurdles. It's not that bad, not like it usually is. Just a few wrappers, but what is that stench?
"What's that smell?" Choose your words carefully, Miranda.
"Oh." The women that gave birth to me let out a deep, gut wrenching burp before continuing. Classy. "I spilt some milk on that chair a few hours ago. You can clean it up." I look at my chair, the one that was covered in Toy Story but now sat with many stains...I think she does it on purpose. Didn't I tell you?
Throwing the wrappers away, I pick up my tattered school books and shuffle my glum self into my bedroom. My four- year- old room. I was obsessed with Barbie, Dora, any cartoon. My sheets were Dora, no kidding. Dora and Boots smile at me with their robotic eyes and exxagerated smile. As if there was anything to be happy about.
My mom walks in the room, her presence even makes Barbie's confident shoulders slouch. Oh, joy. I wait for the bomb to blow.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Scent of Desperation Pages 3-5
I walk through the halls once again as the day drones on, at least it's safer here. Predictable is the word... I always feared facing my mother after school everyday. She was the pitch black, evil, darkness in my already dark world.
I can't be myself here though, or anywhere for that matter. I don't even know who I am. On the outside my mother and I seem inseparable. The perfect mother and daughter relationship anyone would want to have... especially me.
In a closed door, my mother wasn't what she appeared to be. She fed me, yes. She put a roof above my head, yes. Although, she didn't provide me of new clothing, everyone believed her. She beat me...
Yes.
No one knew though. Because people are bleak. They are inconsiderate, robotic. Two- faced. And a lot more.
How could they know, though? It was up to me to keep the good, false image of a hardworking-mother-and-daughter-relationship alive. My mother is hardworking. She loves me...I know she does. Although...not like a daughter. She love me like children loves popscicles on hot summer days. I hate popscicles. It's winter year round in my world...as long as the door stays locked.
I heard the faint sound of shuffling feet and a ringing bell. Time to go home...
Hearing the buses roar to life as I made my way down the buses depressed me. This was the darkest part of the day. Knowing what I was going home to, knowing what I was going to face.
I shoved myself into the back. That way, no one would stare at me, no one would judge. As I seat myself, I gently open the newest book on my reading list: Pendragon: The Merchant of Death, scanning through the worn, neglected pages. Reading is my best friend, it helps me escape from my black hole into a sunny, cloudless, blue. Boy, did I love it there. I only wish I could stay.
I can't be myself here though, or anywhere for that matter. I don't even know who I am. On the outside my mother and I seem inseparable. The perfect mother and daughter relationship anyone would want to have... especially me.
In a closed door, my mother wasn't what she appeared to be. She fed me, yes. She put a roof above my head, yes. Although, she didn't provide me of new clothing, everyone believed her. She beat me...
Yes.
No one knew though. Because people are bleak. They are inconsiderate, robotic. Two- faced. And a lot more.
How could they know, though? It was up to me to keep the good, false image of a hardworking-mother-and-daughter-relationship alive. My mother is hardworking. She loves me...I know she does. Although...not like a daughter. She love me like children loves popscicles on hot summer days. I hate popscicles. It's winter year round in my world...as long as the door stays locked.
I heard the faint sound of shuffling feet and a ringing bell. Time to go home...
Hearing the buses roar to life as I made my way down the buses depressed me. This was the darkest part of the day. Knowing what I was going home to, knowing what I was going to face.
I shoved myself into the back. That way, no one would stare at me, no one would judge. As I seat myself, I gently open the newest book on my reading list: Pendragon: The Merchant of Death, scanning through the worn, neglected pages. Reading is my best friend, it helps me escape from my black hole into a sunny, cloudless, blue. Boy, did I love it there. I only wish I could stay.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Scent of Desperation Pages 1-2
I walk through the halls, staring straight into the eyes averting my chilled over gaze. No one is my friend here, everyone is an enemy, easy prey. I've only had one friend before. My dad. My life was once a four-year-old fantasy...
I wanted to be a model when I was little. My daddy made that dream come true. The memory gave me the most pride and hope a four-year-old could ask for. Daddy told me to put on my Easter dress, my best one. It was blue, a white lace fringe at the bottom and a white collar to match. Ducks covered the blue dress. Different colors, sizes and shapes...all ducks.
Momma held me close that day, when we were a family. She had small elegant fingers that braided my hair, intertwining them into the dark brown jungle to form something completely wonderous.
We took pictures then, silly, funny, sweet, quirky, anything you could think of. That day was a day full of happiness, hopefulness, but that day is but a memory. Gone like a seashell washing from the shore into the blackness of the waves... hope is but a memory.
Back in reality, I continue my walk to class. Slowly I unpack what I could scavenge from previous school years. Even a few pieces of paper in a journal were a lot to find this year. Suddenly, the teacher and I both sweep our eyes to the surface, locking them together. What did she want to say?
"Miranda, where are your supplies from the supply list? Not to be rude but your papers are gone, your pencils are almost to small to manage any more use and your binders aren't even the correct size."
I can only manage a squeaky, "Mom couldn't get them." then force my jell-oey legs to a desk in the back.
I could melt at any moment. I could turn into slush, just like melted snow. I won't. Hiding my mother's awful secret is vital. All I have to hide it with is my clothes, and my own little twisted innocent poker face. Although, the question is....why do I try?
I wanted to be a model when I was little. My daddy made that dream come true. The memory gave me the most pride and hope a four-year-old could ask for. Daddy told me to put on my Easter dress, my best one. It was blue, a white lace fringe at the bottom and a white collar to match. Ducks covered the blue dress. Different colors, sizes and shapes...all ducks.
Momma held me close that day, when we were a family. She had small elegant fingers that braided my hair, intertwining them into the dark brown jungle to form something completely wonderous.
We took pictures then, silly, funny, sweet, quirky, anything you could think of. That day was a day full of happiness, hopefulness, but that day is but a memory. Gone like a seashell washing from the shore into the blackness of the waves... hope is but a memory.
Back in reality, I continue my walk to class. Slowly I unpack what I could scavenge from previous school years. Even a few pieces of paper in a journal were a lot to find this year. Suddenly, the teacher and I both sweep our eyes to the surface, locking them together. What did she want to say?
"Miranda, where are your supplies from the supply list? Not to be rude but your papers are gone, your pencils are almost to small to manage any more use and your binders aren't even the correct size."
I can only manage a squeaky, "Mom couldn't get them." then force my jell-oey legs to a desk in the back.
I could melt at any moment. I could turn into slush, just like melted snow. I won't. Hiding my mother's awful secret is vital. All I have to hide it with is my clothes, and my own little twisted innocent poker face. Although, the question is....why do I try?
Monday, August 30, 2010
Scent of Desperation Prologue
The pain of a loved ones abuse is worse than anything imaginable. Heartbreak doesn't make a crack in the glass wall of despair, I've had it. Nothing is worse. Mothers....they're suppossed to be loving. Gentle, caring....right? Well, my life is different.
I clutched my back pack like it was my security blanket. The red velvet feel comforted me, it's zipper in my hand, safe and secure. Kids strolled by, analyzing my frail looks and forming a sour look to their faces. They looked like they were sucking on a lemon. The faces screeched out to me "Too sour!! Where's the sugar?!" Yes, I was wearing a tight blue sweatshirt (What was it, three years old now?) with Eyeore from 'Winnie the Pooh'....in the summer. Bold and proud he stood, standing out of the crowd. The kids didn't know why I dressed out of weather...but I had my reasons.
I didn't feel normal. I had tight clothing, my hair was frizzy and dirty and my body frail as if it was bent too much it could snap like a twig. My blond hair didn't mix with the emo black and chocolate brunnette hair of the fifth grade. They had long, flowing hair, alond with the right school clothes. The right tees, jeans, belts, everything I had ever wanted. I wanted to be them, some say they are 'preps' , snobby and milk curdling, I didn't care. They had everything while I had nothing, that was all that was needed for me to desire such a high status. The thing is, I wasn't different from those girls. In appearence, yes. I got good grades, kept up with my things, minded my own business (Okay, one thing.), I was a good lil' girl. It wasn't me...it was my mother's lifestyle.
I clutched my back pack like it was my security blanket. The red velvet feel comforted me, it's zipper in my hand, safe and secure. Kids strolled by, analyzing my frail looks and forming a sour look to their faces. They looked like they were sucking on a lemon. The faces screeched out to me "Too sour!! Where's the sugar?!" Yes, I was wearing a tight blue sweatshirt (What was it, three years old now?) with Eyeore from 'Winnie the Pooh'....in the summer. Bold and proud he stood, standing out of the crowd. The kids didn't know why I dressed out of weather...but I had my reasons.
I didn't feel normal. I had tight clothing, my hair was frizzy and dirty and my body frail as if it was bent too much it could snap like a twig. My blond hair didn't mix with the emo black and chocolate brunnette hair of the fifth grade. They had long, flowing hair, alond with the right school clothes. The right tees, jeans, belts, everything I had ever wanted. I wanted to be them, some say they are 'preps' , snobby and milk curdling, I didn't care. They had everything while I had nothing, that was all that was needed for me to desire such a high status. The thing is, I wasn't different from those girls. In appearence, yes. I got good grades, kept up with my things, minded my own business (Okay, one thing.), I was a good lil' girl. It wasn't me...it was my mother's lifestyle.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Welcome!
Hello! In this post I will tell you what this blog is about.
This blog is supporting Against Child Abuse. Anything talking against child abuse could be posted here. In fact, a new series will be arriving soon! Child Abuse has been a recent concern to me. On shelfari.com (a virtual bookshelf website), I made a group. It also helps to Speak Against Child Abuse. Most of you probably came here because of that group. I hope you all check this blog regularly in search of ways to stop child abuse and to see our feelings Against it. To start off a way to help, write something. Anything. A sentence, a paragraph, a poem, a song, something supporting your belief against Child Abuse. That's all for now! My Poem will be posted in the comments section, as could yours.
This blog is supporting Against Child Abuse. Anything talking against child abuse could be posted here. In fact, a new series will be arriving soon! Child Abuse has been a recent concern to me. On shelfari.com (a virtual bookshelf website), I made a group. It also helps to Speak Against Child Abuse. Most of you probably came here because of that group. I hope you all check this blog regularly in search of ways to stop child abuse and to see our feelings Against it. To start off a way to help, write something. Anything. A sentence, a paragraph, a poem, a song, something supporting your belief against Child Abuse. That's all for now! My Poem will be posted in the comments section, as could yours.
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