Hi. This is my story. This is a work of fiction...well, some parts are. Don't read it if you're not of age. Don't steal.
This is the first story I've ever submitted on here, so don't give me too much shit!
It'd be great if I got some feedback. I will continue with this story if I know that people are interested! xxcriticalacclaimxx@hotmail.com
P.S. I didn't do any type of proof-reading or peer edit so there will be mistakes... its inevitable. And I know that I write weird.
J
They told me to run, so I ran. As I tried to escape, I whispered, "don't hurt me, don't hurt me."
I was being chased by a drunk teenager, a girl so angry with her own life that she felt the need to steal and lie and hurt in order to make herself feel stronger, so there I was, running for my life. I didn't run far, she caught me half a block away. My heart was beating at an exponential rate and my mind was racing and the tears were streaming and I was cold and as I lurched forward she caught the strap of my backpack and pulled me towards her.
"Please, don't hurt me." I whispered pathetically as she wound up her arm and, in slow motion, (I'll blame that on the six beers that I pounded), I watched her round fat death-white fist swing through the dimensions of space and time and I will always have this image filed and locked away in the dusty file-drawer of my brain, the anger she wore on her chunky mean face. Like a sling shot, she unwound and her fist landed on my cheek bone, and I let out a scream, and I shut my eyes and covered my face with my arms, I fell back and crumpled into the thorny bush as she started to kick my rib cage. I let out a pain filled roar. And a moan. And I felt her tugging away at my backpack again. I let her have it, I was useless. It was disgusting how easy I gave myself to her. I am a shame.
The funny thing is, is that I wasn't worried about how badly she was going to hurt me, I was worried that she was going to steal my phone. Or my credit card. Or my North Face. But she didn't. They were in my pant pocket. She just took my backpack.
I was laying face-first in a thorny bush which was uncomfortable and scary. I rolled over, and I watched her walk away from my limp body triumphantly, like she was Maria Sklodowska-Curie winning the Nobel Prize for the discovery of radioactivity. But let me inform you, she is not Maria Sklodowska-Curie, she is the white-trash high school dropout coked out drunk pregnant girl that you will find on the streets of your downtown begging for a cigarette or a cheeseburger or a few dollars for "food", but she wont spend that few dollars that you give her on "food", she'll spend it on diluted crack cocaine that she usually buys from the homeless man with the dog a few blocks away, but never mind that, back to my story. She walks away from me like she's gained something. She walks away like she is proud that she beat up a five-foot-two ninety-five pound seventeen-year-old. She walks away like she's done this before. She walks away like she enjoys it. She walks away like she is happy that she has nothing.
With each step she takes towards her friend and away from me I admire the beautiful irony of the situation, and I couldn't help but smile. The backpack was completely empty. There was nothing in it. She went through all of that to take a bag. And then I told myself that in a parallel universe, I had left my phone and my credit card and my car keys in the front pocket, and I felt sorry for that parallel me. I told myself that I couldn't dwell on that.
Back to reality.
I lay paralyzed in the thorny-bush hoping that the girl would not return. Two minutes went by. Then five. Seven. I concluded that she was satisfied, and I called my friends whom I had lost at the party that I was at before karma turned her ugly blemished face.
A Few Days Later
It was dark in her room for it was night and the sun had descended in my city and ascended in the other half of the world, which is a strange phenomenon, if you really think about it. Yeah, anyways, I was laying on my side, back to her, nose buried in her pillow because I liked the smell of here sheets. I liked the smell of her. I liked everything. I could feel the love radiating between our bodies. You know when you set the table and you lay out the fork and the knife atop the napkin? She was the fork and I was the knife. The napkin can portray they bed. That analogy didn't make any sense, but we can keep it.
I laid there, wanting her to touch me. I wanted her fingers to caress my wounds, her nimble elegant long fingers to caress my cheekbone that had been violated by the girl's fist. I waited. And I felt it. I heard the sheets rustle and I soon felt her hand on my hip bone. She massaged it. She lightly dragged her hand toward my navel. Her hand was soft and warm. She scooted closer to me so her breasts were pressing against my back, so her mouth was on my neck, so the front of her legs were pressed up to the back of mine. She exhaled into my ear and whispered, "I love you," There was a long pause.
"Don't ever let anyone touch you like that," she said before she kissed my cheek bone.
Another long pause.
"I wish I had been there."
Her hand traveled from my navel to my bruised side, where the girl had stomped her dirty converse. She kissed my neck. She breathed into my ear and leaned over to try to kiss my lips. She kept her position like that, we looked into each others eyes. Hers are blue. Mine are blue. She exhaled, inhaled, exhaled. She brought her lovely freckled nose to my nose and gave me a nudge. I smiled. She didn't. She brought her lips to mine. I quivered.
Send me feedback! xxcriticalacclaimxx@hotmail.com