Pain seeps from the hand down as the deep rich colour of my blood stains as it is dragged down my arm. Tears pouring a stream from the hazel eyes looking at me as I stare at my reflection. Useless daughter with no-one’s eyes, face framed with anguish and torture but hair as dark and thick as her mother’s; the only thing really linking her to her family. Look at the pathetic ignorant bitch who is only a nuisance. Each torture, each misery replayed in her tears but as they leave her face they do not leave her memories. Years from now she will look down at her arm, the gash having no evidence on her body but she will still remember the cold edge of the knife that was forced upon her arm. A broken soul is like a broken mirror; it is better to leave it broken then hurt yourself trying to fix it.
I was only eight.
VOCÊ ESTÁ LENDO
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Ficção AdolescenteAt the age of eight my life was turned upside down my father dead but it's all my fault. My mother despises me caught in the never ending flood of grief and she ended up sending me away to my aunties house in America where I will try to rebuild my l...
