What I Do You Think You 're Going Bitch?

“I’ll never hit you in the face where it will leave a mark...” The words rushed in, taunting. The cold emptiness in the tone, like he was there in the room, whispering in her ear. And all at once, the fear was back. The raw fear that gripped her body like a vice and left her gulping in air. In a panic, she whirled her head around the room. She was alone. Relief flooded her, but the sickening butterflies remained. She gripped the counter until her knuckles turned white; outlining the jagged scar more prominently, and she fought to steady her breathing, blink back the tears, focus on something else.

It’s the day I have to move to the army's campsite. I grab my bag and swing them on my shoulder, it weighs a ton it feels like my shoulder’s gonna break. Sophie was peeking through my room door, as I was about to stand up she ran to the living room curled up into a ball making loud thud and sobbing noises. Outside of the house, I hug my mom as tight as I could, I don’t want to move any single inch of my bone. I want to stay like this forever. I felt a drop of water behind my shoulder and I know that it was her tears. I don’t want to leave them but I have to. It was time to let go but she didn’t want to, I grab her arm and slightly push them back.

The last thing I saw was my alarm clock flashing 1:07 AM before her rancid hands gripped my mouth shut. She dug her nails into my chest, muffling my plait of agony with her other hand.

“I don’t know what to do anymore,” I say as I run the blade ‘down the road’ on my wrist. I cried softly, hoping no one can hear me. I don’t want to be in this world anymore. How can I live in the world when everyone hates me? My parents abused me all the time before they died. I guess it’s now taking an effect on me. My friends all stabbed my back a thousand times. I Wish I didn’t tell them my secrets. They just went and told everyone else and now I’m known as the town slut. Even my boyfriend hates me. Or should I say ex-boyfriend. He proved it today. (Flashback) I was walking to class. I saw two people kissing next to the lockers and thought “I wish my boyfriend and I were like that.” As I got closer, it was my boyfriend with another girl. How could he? He said he loved me. We all lie at one point in our lives. Am I right? He

I used to be proud of who I was. I used to be free, but I’ve fallen, slowly stripped bare of all I was and could have been. I resent them, those who gruesomely ripped me from my haven and shackled me beneath their feet. I resent the world for abandoning me in this hell, leaving me to suffer. I resent who I have become, a puppet, used only for their entertainment. The devil only grows within me, plaguing my mind during the sleepless nights. Feeding images into my mind. Images of their blood splattered across the walls of their beloved blue and red (tent). My teeth sinking into the fatty flesh of their neck. The horror painted on their faces as I gleefully avenge the loss of my sanity. And I detest myself. I loathe the satisfaction that I feel fantasising about their murder. I fear myself, and what I have become under their control. I yearn for the days I spent in my

The large cut on the right side of my forehead had begun to bleed again; my own blood threatening to choke me. “Calm down its ok. You're going through a rough phase that's all. Try to get some rest,” was all the comfort dad could manage before choking up into tears. He turned away as streaks of auburn curls lightly brushed against me, the owner tending to my wound. Rest, he says; not so easy when every time your eyes droop, the dreams begin. They have been getting worse, the closer I become in finding a way to bring her

The worst night came after my mom left us. Why she didn’t take me, I’ll never understand. It was almost as if she’d left me for dead; the result of her absence had an obvious consequence. I wish I didn’t have to take her place, but I did, and now I know how his words feel, stabbing you repeatedly. I know how his hands feel, leaving imprints on my face. I know how her

I’m in the prison line minding my own business as a few girls punch me. I did nothing to them, but that day i was getting out of prison and the girls get jealous if the others get out. The police are sending me to a foster home. My seventh one and i’m hoping it’s the last. My head is throbbing and there is a cut on the upper part of my lip. Before I leave I ask where is my brother you said you promise would never split us apart. The social worker finds my brother and he is taken out of the home he is in, now he is with me I feel safe.

“Fine,” she looked up as a man with a scar running down his cheek smiled sinisterly. She didn’t trust him, she moved to try to get out of his reach but he pulled his arm out. Her eyes widened in horror as his fist came forward, she had stopped crying, watching the fist as if it was coming at her slowly. When it hit her face she barely registered it, it didn’t hurt, only stung and sent a shock through her body. Another fist came, then another. Her vision was going blurry, she heard them say something but she couldn’t make out what it was as her body fell limp against the seat and her eyes shut, unable to handle the pain in her

Lying on the uncomfortable, terrible, backstabbing prison mattress, I am feeling exhausted. I hadn’t slept for days after that traumatising incident. The fear and pain I am feeling deep inside me is unbearable and seems to become more and more horrifying as time goes past. As my cracked lips tremble, Pearl-shaped tears slowly drip out of my puffed-up eyes and down my frail face, as I remember that unforgettable moment that happened in a split second. I stare at the damp, dirty ceiling with my heart completely shattered, trying to think of reasons why I should live. The more I think about the accident, the more distressed I feel.

He produced numerous, knives, tongs, and saws from the cabinets to his left and right. Many of his instruments were doused in fresh crimson fluids and had heavy signs of use. He removed my clothes, folding them into a nice neat pile, placing them on a countertop to his right. I felt the first incision, a fine line being carved vertically across my chest, peeling back the skin. Next he used a fine-tooth saw to cut through my sternum. It wasn’t until he cracked my ribs open, that the futility of the situation took effect. The pain was excruciating, I began to scream and thrash around on the bench, kicking his instruments of torture. “Shhh, shhh, shh,” he said, placing a dirty wet rag over my mouth. My vision blurred, as I watching my exposed heart beat, blood pulsating from my chest, over my bare skin, down onto the stone floor. I slipped into a warm

I would shut my eyes because I knew what was coming. And before I shut my eyes, I held my breath, like a swimmer ready to dive into a deep ocean. I could never watch when his hands came toward me; I only patiently waited for the harsh sound of the strike. I would always remember his eyes right before I closed my own: pupils wide with rage, cold, and dark eyebrows clenched with hate. When it finally came, I never knew which fist hit me first, or which blow sent me to my knees because I could not bring myself to open my eyes. They were closed because I didn’t want to see what he had promised he would never do again. In the darkness of my mind, I could escape to a paradise where he would never reach me. I would find again the haven where I

I peered through my window at the gang of children; four of them were kicking and clawing another child curled on the asphalt — his knees to his face, covering his head from their pummeling feet. My chest tightened knowing that there were too violent and too many for me to stop, being a child myself I knew that I has no chance of pulling them off without being hurt as well. The reason for this attack escaped my knowledge as I was isolated inside my room, detached from the outside world. I contemplated what I could do and something inside me instinctively pulled for me to run for help but the beating stopped as quickly as it started, I watched the others disperse. The victim got up and walk away, jeering fists at the retiring children, spitting

She struggled out of her restless sleep. Rolling on the ground she found herself trying to break free from the grasp of hate. On the cusp of barbarity, she finally woke. She rubbed her eyes awake and sat vigilant, isolated by her own thoughts. Iron bars, circling her cage, tainted the lively fragrance of spring.

Periodically, Smith would show up with a bruise that she couldn’t cover completely. I knew what it was like to be in her shoes, a professional runner, skilled at covering bruises with MAC, a proficient excuse maker, a master manipulator. I had been her, but now, this had to stop. My frustration grew with every bruise and excuse. I stressed about her, him, and my lack of action constantly. Personally, this was becoming too much of a burden and I knew that without action, the situation was going to go from bad to worse. What I didn’t expect was that I would be the one to go overboard.