Silence

Chapter 1

Evelyn's POV

I look down at my cold hands.

I didn't want to go home.

I never want to go home.

My home doesn't feel like a home.

I lifted up my sleeve to look at my forming scar. There it was. The fresh wound still raw.

Dad gave it to me yesterday.

I touch it and wince at the pain. I get pain everywhere, overwhelming me. From the outside to the inside. Every day and every moment of my miserable life.

I was standing on the curb outside my school. I had made sure I wasn't in the crowd for I don't want to be touched. The crowd of my school is loud and I hate loud. People so excited to be out of school. Everyone except me. I'm the only one with fear laced into my eyes. Embedded. The only one in silence.

People glance at me. They always do. They look at me in that way that means who are you? and why are you so weird? I don't give them an answer. Even if they asked it out loud I wouldn't give them any sort of answer.

I won't talk.

I'm silent.

Completely silent.

No yell. No words. No whisper.

I won't be touched.

I won't touch.

I won't talk.

Because touch and words ruined my life. They killed my life. I may be alive, but inside, I'm never alive. Because words and touch killed me.

I'm dead.

Others speak freely. Others high five each other and slap each other on the back (a motion of affection which I don't understand at all). I for one won't even shake a teacher's hand the very first day when I first meet them. When they're standing near the door to greet every student and say with the perkiest voice they can manage nice to meet you! and give me their hand to shake I just nod politely and grasp my hands behind my back. As soon as I do that their facial expressions read either what's wrong with this girl? Is she ok? Do I need to call the school phycologist? or they look at me confused and glance at me disapprovingly. I get that one often.

After a while I realize that the crowd pouring out of school is thinning out because most people have already left. I take a deep breath and head home. If I don't get home soon, I'll get an extra beating. At home I sneak quietly to the basement which is my room. My parents gave me a sheet and and a pillow. Thats all they gave me. That's all they ever gave me. I guess they gave me life too. But I never wanted life.

This pillow and sheet is my bed. A sheet and a pillow on a cold stone floor. How comfy, huh?

My clothes which I got with my own money from mowing my next door neighbors lawn and walking his dogs sits in piles in the corner of my room. There isn't much of it. I have to wash it myself in the pond down the street. That's right.

A pond.

My parents don't let me use the washing machine for my clothing. They only let me (or should I say make me) use the washing machine to wash their clothes. My food is the left overs from my parents. Yes, this is my life. My horrible, painful, dehumanizing life.

I don't even feel like a person. Shouldn't people know how it feels to be happy? Because I don't. I've read the definition of the word so many times trying to understand what it means. How it feels. But I still don't know what it truly is. Happy is a good feeling. It's when things are right in your life. Or when something good happens. Or when something gets better. Or all of those. Or...I don't know.

Will I ever know?

After my parents eat I silently sneak upstairs and eat the leftovers. Then Mom comes in. I freeze and drop my fork on my plate.

Cling!

"Do the dishes, idiot!" Mom said.

'Idiot'.

Not 'Evelyn'.

'Idiot'.

That's who I am.

I quickly stood up and grabbed my plate. Mom comes over to me. Then she shoves me for some reason I can not explain. The only reason is that she wants to hurt me and she takes joy in seeing me in pain. I fall over. The plate slips from my hand crashing on the ground breaking into pieces.

Clash!

A piece of glass slid over to my hand which was on the ground. The glass sliced my hand, creating a gash with blood seeping out.

"You just broke one of our plates!" Mom screeched, a psychotic anger in her voice.

I looked up at her, my eyes filled with fear and pain. I run over to the broom. Ignoring the gash in my hand, I sweep up the glass as Mom keeps kicking my knee. I wince over and over again, feeling that my knee was going to give in, as it kept buckling under me, sending pain throughout me.

Finally, Mom gets tired of kicking me and goes upstairs to Dad and her's room, and my knee gives in and I collapse onto the floor. I finish cleaning up the shattered plate. Then I clean the dishes. I grab a paper towel and wrap it around my gash. Then I go to bed. Like most nights, I cry myself to sleep.

Pain.

Pain is my life.

Pain drowns me.

I've living in a pool of pain.

Because pain is my life.

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Sorry for the short chapter! Thanks so much for reading!