Creative Writing: The Worst Kind Of Torture

I felt a sting in my chest. I instinctively put my hand over the wound as freezing cold blood spilled out onto my brittle hands. I’ve never felt pain like this before. I look to Mavis one last time. Bang!

Letting out a miserable groan, my eyes rolled to the back of my head and I slowly sank into my seat. Finally, the bell’s boisterous rings erupted throughout the classroom, signifying my freedom. Running to the exit, I quickly grabbed myself a copy from the monstrous stack at the front of the room. Forcefully shoving it into the bottom of my bag, the novel was the last thing I wanted to think about for the rest of the

As he stared down the dark, winding streets of London it was evident that he was in pain beyond imagination. His eyes were evidently engorged and it could be seen through the purple clouds around his eyes that he was close to losing all control of his senses. Blood was seeping from the deep hole in the upper right corner of his left shoulder, every sluggish step he took forward sent a searing pain through his nerves all the way to the wound, leaving no chance for the blood loss to halt. The cold rain was falling gently onto the gloomy road surrounding him but it bothered him not, the dangerously dark setting in fact paid tribute to his murky charisma. His head hung, long grimy hair falling over his eyes as he looked straight down at the aged

Do it, Emma. Get rid of the pain. I bit my lip, trying to resist the urge, but give in. I pick the sharp blade and place it above my left wrist. C'mon, don't you want to feel better? Tears stream down my face. I want to make things better, but will this actually help.. I exhaled and grazed the blade against my skin. Good. More. I give in again and cut deeper than before. The blood oozes out as little beads and falls onto white tiled floor, coating the floor with blood. I lower my gaze to the floor, taking in the numbness I feel. I take a deep breath, knowing that the adrenaline is kicking in. The feeling is a sort of high I'm addicted to, allowing me to forget everything at the moment. The pains spreads throughout my body to my fingertips to

Chunks of bone and muck hit her in the face and caused Allison to flinch, spit, and sputter. The shriek that sounded like a sharp metal blade shredding thinner metal caused her to shudder.

“I know,” she replies faintly. She tries to mentally prepare herself for what she’s about to do. She can still hear the noise of a gunshot, and she can feel the ringing in her ears. She closes her eyes, and the memory of Alex’s blood spilling onto the concrete is still fresh. Everything hurts, and she doesn’t want to do this anymore.

“Some people say I was lucky to survive, other will say I deserved it for the choice I made. I’m here to say I was lucky, it’s never ok to say your life isn’t worth living even at your worst you can always look forward tomorrow will come and if you put your mind to it you’ll see that anything is possible.” – Stephen McGregor Professional Paralympian

“Mrs. Mitchell is in critical condition.” Lydia’s face crumpled and she was about to give up hope when the doctor spoke again. “Her legs are both broken and, due to the lengthy time spent without access to blood, almost completely dead. She has two broken ribs, a broken arm, and a minor concussion. Luckily, there was no damage to the brain. I know this must be so hard for you both, but chin up! Although she will never walk again, we are almost positive that we will be able to heal her broken bones and her other minor injuries.” At Lydia’s concerned look, he clarified. “By minor injuries, I simply mean cuts, gashes, bruises and the like. In conclusion, we will be able to help Mrs. Mitchell, but she will have to stay overnight, perhaps for a week or two. Do the two of you need a place to stay?” After the pair mutely shook their heads, Mr. Hal walked up to the front desk, paid the bill, and drove Lydia to his house in silence. “You can stay here until we get your house fixed up,” he told her as they hopped out of the wagon

it's been probably a few hours now and nothing has happened i start thinking about my family, friends, and even Mrs.Berntson. That's when i think about the book she read in class and how spelling out meanwhile moves me to a different place. So i try to spell out meanwhile hoping that i will go to another place but it doesn't seem to be working. I keep thinking about the book and remember that at the end the kid yells the end and is instantly brought back to where he started. As loud as i can i scream, “The

I hunkered down behind the massive boulder and managed to wedge myself between it and another stone and I kicked out. It didn’t budge. I shoved again, harder, but it wouldn’t give an inch. My only option was to use

I can't move, every ounce of breath is crucial. I feel it trying to trap me in a wooden coffin-like box. I scream "Mom!" as loud as I can, nothing. Not a yell or a screech, just one single whisper.

“It most certainly is not,” retorted Phillie. “Freddie is that terrible man from those awful movies made years ago. The man who would attack children in their sleep.”

It’s just another normal day in Mrs. Larson’s class. I sit in the very front of the class, so that means hearing her loud, annoying, squeaky voice. and getting smacked in the face with her spit every time she talks. I’m also surrounded by the worst people in class. To my left is Fredrick Nelson, whose things always have a slimy layer covering them, and is always picking his nose. And to my right is Tiffany Jones. The most popular girl in the seventh grade. You're probably wondering why I think that’s a bad thing, right? Well, Tiffany and I were the bestest friends, until she accused me of stealing one of her most prized possessions, her pink and silver hello kitty pencil. Since then, we have been enemies. She tries to get me in trouble in

The officer sitting said.“I’m gonna find that body one day, and when I do you’ll be hanged for your crime,” in a confident voice.

The first time I saw her she was perched on my chair at New Westview High in the English 11 classroom and was twirling a luxurious pair of earbuds around her elegant and slender fingers wrapping them around like whips. Lethal. Pestilent. Yet still there was something about her that was bewitching. She screamed anguished closures and shredded promises. Back then I just had a feeling. One of those nauseating, petrifying feelings but almost addictive when I went near her. She had these black and red beats that were colossal compared to her meagre face but she didn't seem to mind. They kept slipping off her sleek, smooth hair. Why would she have earbuds and headphones? Like what an idiot. Her fingers and feet tapped out the rhythm on the floor.