The Girl | Teen Ink

The Girl

March 6, 2016
By Anonymous

She walked through the halls to her next class. She took her seat. People looked at her in awe. She’s fearless, everyone thought. Tons of people would look at her and think she’s amazing and courageous. “Your assignment is to make a list of everything you’re afraid of,” the teacher said. She’s not going to write anything. She’ll leave it blank, people thought. She stood up and walked out. She didn’t want to write down her fears.
When she got home her mom was sleeping. She snuck up to her room and did her homework. She finished and walked down the stairs into the kitchen. Her mom rustled and moaned around. She hurried and ran to the bathroom. When she didn’t hear anything she walked out. Her mom snuck up behind her and dragged her down to the basement. She screamed for her life. She got chained to the wall. Her mom grabbed the whip and whip her until she was weak and couldn’t move. She got unchained and left in the darkness of the basement.
Up in her room, she put bandages and ointment on. She didn’t want anyone to see her weak and fearful. She cried herself to sleep, but when her dad got home she ran to the corner of her room. She cried when he entered her room. She screamed while he stripped her down. The torture she goes through everyday, she couldn’t deal with it anymore, but she couldn’t say anything. Her parents threaten her and she doesn’t want to be weak and fearful.
The next morning she goes to school. Same routine, class, lunch, more class, homework, whipping, crying, dinner, more crying, sexual abuse, crying, and sleep. Her list of fears mocked her. She looked at it and became angry. The next day at school she turned in her list. Her teacher told everyone that she won’t read them until tomorrow. She came up with a plan.
The next day she didn’t show up. People thought she was just sick or skipping school. A few days turned into a few weeks. Her friend rounded up some classmates to go over to her house to ask where she was.
After school the group of kids went to her house. They walked in and her mom was on the couch with needles and vodka next to her. They walked up to their friends room. There was a horrid smell. They looked in the closet and found her body. She’d hung herself. There was a note attached to her. It read, My fears: my mom whipping me, my dad rapping me, my family abusing me. I want my family to love me. I want a family that wants ME. I didn’t want anyone to find out my family hates me. I want to be fearless but it doesn’t help being fearful.
All she wanted was a family and happiness. The teacher who she gave the list to testified against her parents in court. Her mom and dad were sent to jail and her closest friend had a memorial for her and her fight against her parents. She never let anyone in her life. She didn’t think anyone would understand. Nobody will understand unless you tell them what’s going on. Don’t keep it to yourself. Let someone in.


The author's comments:

My english teacher gave my class a prompt to go off of and I wrote a shorter version in class. I wanted to go into detail about the story. I know that abuse is a worldwide problem and I wanted to give some thought on what I think is abuse. I hope people get that they should let people in and don't shut them out. Also that self harm or suicide is not the way to go.


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This article has 2 comments.


swimmagirl said...
on May. 4 2016 at 8:28 pm
swimmagirl, Anonymous, Other
0 articles 0 photos 1 comment

Favorite Quote:
If it doesn't challenge you it doesn't change you.

Aww, thanks! :)

on Mar. 15 2016 at 4:14 pm
socialkaysualty PLATINUM, Dover, Delaware
25 articles 0 photos 37 comments

Favorite Quote:
Let us go then, you and I, <br /> When the evening is spread out against the sky <br /> Like a patient etherized upon a table; <br /> Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, <br /> The muttering retreats <br /> Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels <br /> And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells: <br /> Streets that follow like a tedious argument <br /> Of insidious intent <br /> To lead you to an overwhelming question ... <br /> Oh, do not ask, &ldquo;What is it?&rdquo; <br /> Let us go and make our visit. <br /> <br /> In the room the women come and go <br /> Talking of Michelangelo. <br /> <br /> The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes, <br /> The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes, <br /> Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening, <br /> Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains, <br /> Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys, <br /> Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap, <br /> And seeing that it was a soft October night, <br /> Curled once about the house, and fell asleep. <br /> <br /> And indeed there will be time <br /> For the yellow smoke that slides along the street, <br /> Rubbing its back upon the window-panes; <br /> There will be time, there will be time <br /> To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet; <br /> There will be time to murder and create, <br /> And time for all the works and days of hands <br /> That lift and drop a question on your plate; <br /> Time for you and time for me, <br /> And time yet for a hundred indecisions, <br /> And for a hundred visions and revisions, <br /> Before the taking of a toast and tea. <br /> <br /> In the room the women come and go <br /> Talking of Michelangelo. <br /> <br /> And indeed there will be time <br /> To wonder, &ldquo;Do I dare?&rdquo; and, &ldquo;Do I dare?&rdquo; <br /> Time to turn back and descend the stair, <br /> With a bald spot in the middle of my hair &mdash; <br /> (They will say: &ldquo;How his hair is growing thin!&rdquo;) <br /> My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin, <br /> My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin &mdash; <br /> (They will say: &ldquo;But how his arms and legs are thin!&rdquo;) <br /> Do I dare <br /> Disturb the universe? <br /> In a minute there is time <br /> For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse. <br /> <br /> For I have known them all already, known them all: <br /> Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, <br /> I have measured out my life with coffee spoons; <br /> I know the voices dying with a dying fall <br /> Beneath the music from a farther room. <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> So how should I presume? <br /> <br /> And I have known the eyes already, known them all&mdash; <br /> The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase, <br /> And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin, <br /> When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall, <br /> Then how should I begin <br /> To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways? <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> And how should I presume? <br /> <br /> And I have known the arms already, known them all&mdash; <br /> Arms that are braceleted and white and bare <br /> (But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!) <br /> Is it perfume from a dress <br /> That makes me so digress? <br /> Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl. <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> And should I then presume? <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> And how should I begin? <br /> <br /> Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets <br /> And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes <br /> Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? ... <br /> <br /> I should have been a pair of ragged claws <br /> Scuttling across the floors of silent seas. <br /> <br /> And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully! <br /> Smoothed by long fingers, <br /> Asleep ... tired ... or it malingers, <br /> Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me. <br /> Should I, after tea and cakes and ices, <br /> Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis? <br /> But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed, <br /> Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter, <br /> I am no prophet &mdash; and here&rsquo;s no great matter; <br /> I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker, <br /> And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, <br /> And in short, I was afraid. <br /> <br /> And would it have been worth it, after all, <br /> After the cups, the marmalade, the tea, <br /> Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me, <br /> Would it have been worth while, <br /> To have bitten off the matter with a smile, <br /> To have squeezed the universe into a ball <br /> To roll it towards some overwhelming question, <br /> To say: &ldquo;I am Lazarus, come from the dead, <br /> Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all&rdquo;&mdash; <br /> If one, settling a pillow by her head <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> Should say: &ldquo;That is not what I meant at all; <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> That is not it, at all.&rdquo; <br /> <br /> And would it have been worth it, after all, <br /> Would it have been worth while, <br /> After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets, <br /> After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor&mdash; <br /> And this, and so much more?&mdash; <br /> It is impossible to say just what I mean! <br /> But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen: <br /> Would it have been worth while <br /> If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl, <br /> And turning toward the window, should say: <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> &ldquo;That is not it at all, <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> That is not what I meant, at all.&rdquo; <br /> <br /> No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be; <br /> Am an attendant lord, one that will do <br /> To swell a progress, start a scene or two, <br /> Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool, <br /> Deferential, glad to be of use, <br /> Politic, cautious, and meticulous; <br /> Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse; <br /> At times, indeed, almost ridiculous&mdash; <br /> Almost, at times, the Fool. <br /> <br /> I grow old ... I grow old ... <br /> I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled. <br /> <br /> Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? <br /> I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach. <br /> I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each. <br /> <br /> I do not think that they will sing to me. <br /> <br /> I have seen them riding seaward on the waves <br /> Combing the white hair of the waves blown back <br /> When the wind blows the water white and black. <br /> We have lingered in the chambers of the sea <br /> By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown <br /> Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

This actually made tears spring into my eyes o.0 you've got talent