Somewhere

Chapter Four

Sinclaire (Misery)
Sitting in a secluded part of the bookstore I leaned back on the uncomfortable couch. It's leather exterior cracking from its over-use and the wooden foundation underneath creeping it's way to the top. Breathing out contently I propped my scuffed shoes on the opposing armrest. Opening a current book I've been reading in my lap and holding a sharpie in the other I turned the page and catastrophic words in lines of inimical bombs appeared along the pages. Their words hidden amongst the fertility of happiness. Uncapping my marker I slid the ink across the page, slowly destroying the bad and keeping the good. I didn't realize that this till a few years ago, but words, especially destructive words, they hid among the virtuous paragraphs. They mislead us, making us believe an explosion of bombs were an ethereal glow of holy light. Moving my leg over one another I slightly flinched, I felt an ache for pressing my leg against the couch far too much for my liking. Bringing my knee up to my chest I slowly pulled up the pant of my jeans for inspection; looking closely I saw galaxies of purple and blue trailing up my porcelain skin. Eyes glittering with grief I quickly covered up and rested back to my previous position, ignoring the occasional stings of violence along my legs. Thinking back on yesterday upon my arrival at my therapists I was skimming over her books, specifically one named Survivors and their Occurrences. In one of the articles there was a teenage daughter that held the same unfortunate issue as I do today. She spoke of her father as if he were a grenade, to go off at any given moment in time. In one of the paragraphs she stated, "My father was one of those men who sit in a room and you can feel it: the simmer, the sense of some unpredictable force that might, at any moment, break loose, and do something terrible." Fact: One in every four women will experience domestic violence in her lifetime. An estimated 1.3 million women are victims of physical assault by an intimate partner each year. 2 85% of domestic violence victims are women. Females who are 20-24 years of age are at the greatest risk of nonfatal intimate partner violence. Back then facts like these didn't catch my attention, because why even bother for pointless facts, but as soon as that thought passed my mind everything went to shit. Sadly, it wasn't always like this, I used to be a child untainted by life's cruelest jokes. I used to dream of big fancy houses with pink cars and lovely lawns filled with roses. But it all quickly revolved into one big horror story. Affliction painted my body in wine-hues. My views on the world were disfigured by the one man I swore was supposed to protect me from the monsters under my bed. But as it is we all have to grow up; and with realizing this I found out that the monsters didn't creep under my bed nor hide in my closet. But they live in the ones closest to us, and sometimes they even live in us. Eventually desolation homed in my body, succumbing me in its numbness. A new bittersweet occupant in my life. Though I couldn't feel the painful stains of torture and persecution, I also didn't have the luxury of happiness erupting in my stomach. I couldn't feel the supposed caress of a lovers lips as they whispered sweet nothings delicately into my ear nor could I feel the comforting hug from a loving parent. They say all good things come to those who wait, but now I don't have the patience or time to wait for elation to spring up in my life, only to be taken away by life's inconveniences. I'm just waiting out till my inevitable death strikes me into an impervious bliss.
_______
Please lead feedback and vote for my story