Raptured Sins

chapter 1- Blackened Burdens

My favourite colour ought to be black. Not the black in the sky when the orbs of gas illuminate or the black hairs on the cat that purrs while rubbing against your knee. No. The black from flames that burn memories to embers, scarring every inch of literature that brought life to your childhood.

The books I have burnt trying to forget the horrors of my youth. Pictures chared at the edges, holding a fake families days out to the beach or first days of school. Those are the memories that I wish to forget. They haunt my dreams with forged hope that maybe I could go home and they would welcome me with open arms.

But why would they welcome me? The disappointment. The one that was left in the basement, fabricated pity being thrown at her. Yes they would welcome me, while stabbing a rusted knife into my back to pull out on a further date.

So here and now, I stand, the lighter still in my hand, staring at the burning nursery rhymes and fables.

Embers floating nonchalantly around my hands, slowing fading to white flecks of dust that would sketch a small scar onto my skin as a reminder of its past presence.

My feet, bare, feeling earth's imperfections gently heat. The warmth rippling through my body, embracing me as though it were the family I dreamt of having.

Wind whistled through the dead trees causing the last few leaves to fall on to the ground, dead and crisp.

If I were my younger self, I would have ran over there to pick up those leaves to create a bouquet to give to my mother. To which she would have thrown it on the ground claiming that it was unnecessary waste of space in the thriving world she lived in.

Sometimes I feel like I am young again. My only desire in life being ripped away from my grasp every time my mother praised my brother or my father told me I was a disgrace.

I would often cry in the basement. I felt safe there. No one would come down there because they were afraid of the hauntings that occured down there, but I felt comforted.

If a being wanted to haunt me then that meant they wanted me and the feeling of being wanted was enough for me.

Often, I was awoken in that basement by laughter and happy screams. Maybe my father was tickling my brother. It could have been my parents having a date night. Even my brother getting presents for the smallest of achievements.

Though the time I remember being woken up was different. So different it is stuck replaying in my brain in every quiet moment.

It was the day my brother became 17. I thought nothing of it until I heard his wish being said out loud and not in his head. Those words etched into my brain like scratches on wooden furniture that you say you are going to sand off or paint over, but you never do, you just sigh or grunt when you see it because it's another job you forgot to do.

"I wish my sister was never born"

Maybe I misheard or misunderstood.

But no, of course not. Why would I even think that he could have a slither of sympathy in his spoiled body.

So that day I ran. The door slammed behind me as I fled, glass shattering  from the impact.

I could hear shouts behind me. From afar they could have sounded like annoyed parents after a petty teenage fight, that would hug you after and wish that the words were never spilled.

However that was not the case. The words infused into the air echoing around my head for minutes after. I don't remember what the words were but I know that it hurt and it hurt like a bitch.

So I was left, a 15 year old girl wondering the suburban streets, aimlessly following paths and roads away from family, and the only home I ever knew.

Thinking back now, if that day didn't happen ,I wouldn't be free. I'd probably be locked in my room for days on end, eating nothing, surviving on water, music on it's highest volume drowning out my parents screaming on the other side of my door. Or I could be in the basement listening to the cracks of my house cooling down in the midnight air.

But I am 19 now. The contents of the bag I rushed packing burning on the rage of the blaze in front of me.

I'm not sure why I kept it. It was a burden of my past and a burden to my future.

I guess I kept it when I was younger because it was all I ever knew. They were my family, my blood and nothing could change that.

I was attached, manipulating myself into thinking that I needed those items as a reminder to never go back.

Though all I need is the memories and the sweat that beads on my skin when I sleep from nightmares I cannot escape.

I hope one day the dreams will cease to exist. The fanciful bruises on my wrists from the chains linking me to my childhood fading.

Sometimes I want to see my family again. What have they become is the question that lingers in my mind. I would love to see the pain stricken looks on their faces when they see that they caused the death of someone's happiness.

My brother squirming under the guilt, suffocating and gripping his through from my stare. I would repeat his words by his ear in only a whisper so that it could haunt his every thought and when he's happy he remembers it and goes silent at the thought.

But I know what I would do, as soon as my parents show one smile and hint of a "sorry" I would run to them. I'd forgive them instantly and relish in the feeling of being wanted. I would know it would be fake, an act. I would become their puppet, the perfect image of grace and poise to trail after them when we're at gatherings.

I'm weak at there touch and gaze. Any words I want to say get stuck in my throat and when I try to swallow them down they come back up making me cough and splutter, putting me through the pain that they want.

All I can do is be what they want, no matter what I do I loop back in the circle ending up shut in an endless cycle of pain. To summarise that, a disappointment.

From the second I was born they repeated that, and the story of how I was born.

How I was never meant to happen. That I should have been a boy like they wanted and how when I was born I put my mother in pain from being born early. They never accepted that it wasn't my fault.

I never understood why I wasn't aborted. I come to the conclusion that they enjoy making people feel below them. So that they can step on me and not be affected by the law.

The lying pigs. I don't know how they did it. Everytime I would go to the police and cry and scream about what they did, the would have those forged papers. It would say that I was insane and that I had so many issues. I could never remember them all, there were to many so that there was never a loop hole through.

I remember being 11 and being sent to a psych ward for a year. People would think I was delusional with the accusations I spoke. They claimed the bruises that I was given were ones I gave myself. I don't understand how they didn't see it, my mother smiling like a maniac every time they turned there back but then returning to tears when their eyes were on her.

It was the image of pure evil.

I take a bucket of water into my hand, casting the contents over the fire. The ground sizzling, spirals of smoke merging with the air traveling into my lungs causing me to cough repeatedly.

My adrenaline is fading. Only dust is left of my bag and the relics that were inside. I'm starting to feel the cold from the wet ground soak through my skin making me shiver, the heat no longer conquering the grounds temperature.

Cautiously, I sit down on the ground. My head clouding, my fingers shaking. A smile grew on my face as tears slipped across my cheeks, moonlight glistened on the tributaries of residue lying on my face.

An intense rapture consumed my body, my shoulders felt light, my head slightly swaying in time with the winds blows.

I could have sat there for hours, no thoughts or dreams consuming my brain, just darkness. But my brain was just empty and black.

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First chapter done :)
Not fully edited and is 1502 words so not too long.

Any feed back is so helpful, thanks for reading <3