Sharing with you a short story I enrolled into a writing competition.

 

Do you think this writing is worth to win in any writing contest in whatever spot?

 

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A soft flicker of warmth trickles down all over the insides of her belly, and she stands there across her bed with a tension that has always been a part of her and encompassing the fragile edges of her body; tension in which she grew old with ever since she has been born into this world. Or maybe that’s her mind playing tricks on her; human beings begin to grow into their consciousness when they start to enter their fifth human year, but why does it feel like she has grown into this life bearing the harsh weight of her consciousness over her shoulders already? Is it a curse, to be self-aware of the indigenous life-pattern of her soul? Has she been born with this malicious intent growing like a jarring spike against her body her whole life? 

 

And what’s wrong with her legs, too? Why are they shuddering? Why is her body pulsing with tremors? Why is her heart pounding within her with this potent heaviness that resembles the anchor of a large ship? Why is she tingling all over, her senses shimmering like a numb skin that’s teetering against the verge of vitality and death? She’s so silly; wondering about these questions which she already knows the answers of. 

 

She leans her back against the bed, now wishing to be gentle enough so she can sink against the mattress instead of rigidly standing, a picture of a terrified solider waiting for the blares of war to be so they can flee, or attack. There’s a tension that’s not only just resting upon her shoulders, no; there’s a clamoring energy around the entire place, too; the staggering pupils of her eyes wandering around as if wishing to catch every crane this powerful sphere is coming from. Is it easing out of her bedsheets? The glinting wood of her doorframe that she just recently painted its edges with cheap oil so it’d stop emitting that horrifying squeal whenever she opens it? Or whenever the monster opens it? Is it from under her bed? She always believed there’s a special terror of its own hiding under her bed, ever since she’s been a curious child brave enough to peek under, to a shivering mess the age of adulthood. She always believed there’s something under her large metal bedding. Is the feeling of the frazzled electricity in the air coming from the open gap the size of a fist in her roof? Sure, there’s a soft breeze that the scarred hole elicits, but she remembers it to be gentle, soothing, and driving her with a harsh softness that stands as a contrast against her usual tension, not like now; not like what she’s currently feeling. No, the mystery of the orb she’s undergoing is not coming from her surroundings; it never has for it always follows her around.

 

The cruel rasping whisper is coming from her, encapsulating her whole being, surrounding her fragile soul. 

 

She reaches one of her shaking hands and unconsciously brings it to , her falcon-like claws scratching nothing of her skin or the vulnerable wall of . She gnaws on the strong, unbroken skin, the movement of her jaws around her fingers like a chewing toy for infants the only staggering movement around the sweltering still room.

 

There’s a thought that stirs awake in her mind, a thought that’s been visiting her a lot the past couple of weeks and is triggered by nothing other than the patches of red, blue and orange on her body. The tension grows whenever she’s thinking of it, a stinging pain of a guttural punch in her core growing within it. The pain is so strong she’s almost scared to reach out for it, fearing to find a silhouette of an actual fist on her body. She hasn’t yet amused herself of an actual game-plan for the thought. She’s a true coward; everyone’s thinking it, everyone’s whispering it, and everyone’s believing it. I’m a coward, coward, coward. 

 

Her mom used to tell her the strangest of things about the mind when she was still able to gasp the air of the chill night. We’re enslaved by the thoughts of our subconscious, by the false demeanor of our bravery, by the countenance of others, trapped in its mind like throttled victims that cannot speak; she’d tell her, her voice husky and empty of its usual rough sentiments.  In order to live happily ignorant of our surroundings, we have to wistfully shrug our thoughts. Don’t think, Willow child, act. But how is she to act, when she’s so withered with danger? How can she abstain herself from the thought of her cowardice, when she’s nothing but a helpless prey against it? Her mom tells her she’s a slave for her emotions, but how is she supposed to break the shackles wrapped around her neck when slavery’s everything she has known? When slavery’s everything she has got?

 

Tears gush like waterfalls on her hallowed cheeks, weak and pale because of the painful hunger she’s forced to undergo since eons ago.  The bangs of her hunger episodes are so casually ed in her body she no longer feels them, or she has convinced herself not to feel them anymore. She flashes her fragile eyes, dull and free of the world’s tender joys, to take fleeting glimpse on her covered body. She pulls aside a tattered blue fabric off of her shoulders and traces the colorful imprints on her skin, the usual intake of breath whenever she looks at them not appearing again. She’s used to looking at misery straight in the eye, what a little more will do to her scavenger soul? 

 

Again, the thought of doing something wrong sparkles like a dead flashlight in her head, booming with a massive sound she did not know she was capable of hearing — She has lost her pair of ears long ago — She’s thinking, now, that’s what she’s good at. Am I doing it, heart? Am I going through it, mind? I refuse to be chained by you anymore. I want to be free. I want to be drizzled with flames. I’m tired of this coldness. I want to smell the world, have I lost my sense of smell, too? No, no, no, I no longer want to be a part of this slavery. Today, I’ll find liberty. But what is liberty? I don’t know it, of course. I’ve never felt it, but I know the opposite, I’ve been grazing its teeth with mine. I’m still a fighter though, no matter if I lost its spirit. My frazzled tension should be a witness of what it’s I’m about to accomplish. This moment is a moment of freedom. This moment is a moment of letting go. 

 

She hears it, then, a flicker of a sound, and she breaks her teeth from around her fingers. It’s like the tenacious glint of a beast’s canines as they reflect light, this sound. Now, she might be crazy to make such comparison. The only source of light she has ever seen was the light of the monster’s weapon descending upon her. But the small sound echoing below definitely resembles it. Soft, inauspicious, flickering, audacious, and makes constrict with the signs of vomit. The tremors she’s been inflicted to her eternity begin to increase, harder and fiercer, as if they’re fighting a battle of their own besides the one going amok or berserk in her head. Flop after flop, the sound bellows, like the awakening of a child or the birth of a willow, the flower her mom likes to call her with. Flop, flop, flop; the monster’s ascending the stairs of their cave. The monster’s coming.

 

She wakes; she stands; she flails; she goes to retrieve the long yet solid pencil she’s been acquainted with for a period of time she doesn’t know how to call or count. She goes back to her bed, sits on her haunches like a predatory animal ready to attack. The monster’s got its weapon, and she’s got hers. Her fingers wobbly and her heart’s in disarray, but no, she’s getting her latitude. 

 

She gulps her fear and strengthens her grip, a lousy, repetitive idea striking her core. 

 

Dad’s home.

 

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Title: A Case of Abuse.

Word count: 1400.

 

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What do you think?

Comments

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PuffTedEBear
#1
This was very powerful. Your use of painting imagery that the reader can actually see and emotions they can feel while reading is always spot on.
Go and enter this contest!
NeverNinaa
#2
Yalla yalla just do it!!
It's amazing❤
Bhumig
#3
It seriously send chills through my body.. it is captivating and throughly immersed me... the fear, the anticipation was growing as I continued reading..
I think it can win any spot in any contest, if you're participating in any then Best Of Luck !
xadrimusicx
#4
Holy . I got CHILLS. I remember learning about this style of writing in english in high school but I cant remember what it is called to save my life. But this is soo good omg
adelaraloera #5
Omg yes this is amazing!