Hi guys, umm, this is the beginning of my story, tell me what you think, thanks.^^
I had known her since I was young. But I had never, ever spoken to her. She had empty eyes. They were empty hollows of nothingness and would never be ably to look at her. I would never be able to face her. She was the kind of girl society would shun; Just toss her aside like she was a useless nothing. Any time my eyes would meet hers, they would be forced to look at her. The girl with no identity, name, past, present or future. She was nothing short of a lifeless doll. The little doll that they had put on the shelf, away from everyone else. And why? Because of her eyes. Those empty, hollow eyes. I knew one day I would have to face her and read her story. I slpwly turned the pages of that diary imbedded in my mind. I began:
I hold a secret within the abyss of my soul; A secret none know. This clandestine little secret would be one that I now wish to expose to a select few. Apparently, you would be one I choose to allow to know. This secret slowly devoured my child hood. Instead of dreaming about being a princess, I dreamt about being alive. Instead of eating candy canes and chocolates, I consumed whatever little came my way. Instead of watching cartoons, I watched the time slowly tick by on the grandfather clock planted in the kitchen. Instead of being a child, I became a silhouette of a former self. Here is where my story begins, and where the story ends? I have not a clue.
* * *
I awoke early on a Tuesday morning. The night before daddy had told me he would take me to work with him and I would be able to skip school. I was ecstatic at the prospect of missing a day of second grade, considering I was six years old. But that morning went awry. That fateful February twenty-second in 1998 is where my story begins.
Daddy woke me that morning and I begged for a few minutes as I was so tired. Mother, being as callous as she was, roused me from my sleep quickly and harshly. Daddy insisted on letting me sleep but a few minutes more but mother refused for one reason or another. Mother and Daddy got in a fight that morning. A fight that involved the police and taking my Daddy away somewhere I still don’t know of. All I knew was that Daddy didn’t hit Mother and Mother didn’t hit him. Mother told the police he had a knife and chased her down the hall of our apartment. Mother lied.
* * *
Daddy never came home that evening and I don’t remember how long I had gone without seeing him but I missed him more than ever. I wanted to know what was going on but no one told me. One afternoon, Mother came home early and took me and my brother, Andrew, aside. She had said “You will be seeing your father on Friday night at eight and you’ll be coming home on Saturday night at eight.”
Despite the fact that I would only be seeing Daddy for twenty four hours, I was still happy.
Friday night pulled around slow as ever. Finally, it was eight o’clock and I heard a horn honk outside. It was Daddy. Mother ushered Andrew and I outside to Daddy’s car without so much as a word of greeting to him. I buzzed around happily, still unaware of what was to happen, Andrew sat on the seat, quiet and deep in thought and Daddy drove and responded to me but his mind was far away. We arrived at a motel, a little place called Econo Lodge. If I now had a choice between living in a car and living in that motel, I would choose a car, just because of the sad expression I could see across my Daddy’s face.
Daddy told us what had happened, what was happening, and what would happen. Andrew just took it, as if he already knew, and I sat there confused and sad. Eventually we pushed the prospect of divorce deep into ourselves and tucked it in so we could have a night of peace. I took out a pack of playing cards and we began playing, almost as if everything was normal, but now, as I look back, hot tears well in my eyes. I never will forget the sad expression that often crosses my father’s face. My father was a good man, a very good man. He went to Church, he has never drank anything alcoholic, he has never cursed, nor has he smoked. He did everything a father should. He made up funny stories about rabbits that made me laugh, he helped me in school, he bought me things I wanted. He was a good man. But when I see him, I can see his world crashing down on him and the very thought makes tears rise to my eyes; even now.
* * *
That was the very beginning of her story. I closed my eyes and gulped hard; this would be the very beginning. Of something she had to face