RYL Forums - memory

so. my literacy tutor told me to write something. and i decided to write a memory. i don't like the way i've ended it. thoughts, please?

I begin, a thirteen-year-old girl with too wide-thighs—a lard-built bridge for the calorie-made trolls to cross and enlarge me—and too rabbit-resembling front teeth, on the dusty floor, sprinkles of sticky dirt clinging to it’s surface, of a bathroom.

I grasp at the corners of the bathtub—if I fell onto it, would it be sharp enough to impale me?—and the edges of the sink, cool and damp, but my fist wraps around thin air as I stumble, the room tilting upwards, downwards, side to side. I collapse to the floor, world distorted through my blurred vision, a pile of exhausted limbs, too tired, just so tired.

Frustration tears through me, a trail of red-hot fire burning across my insides, and my boiling blood touches the tips of my fingers and toes, trying to scream and rip me apart. Head in hands, defeated, pain sears through my scalp as I tug harshly at my hair—the one thing everyone’s always complimented me on; if I rid myself of it, maybe I could shed the second skin of people’s expectations and facades—and a scream of desperation catches in my throat.

It’s too much, it’s just too much; my head pounds with the emotion that rages inside of me.

My ears still ring from my mother’s—she’s not my mum, just my mother—screams, her red, red face—specks of redder, freckle-like things covering it—moving closer and closer to my own, her sour breath filling my nostrils, each angered shout accompanied by a shower of spit.

Outside, I can hear the hollow thump, thump, thump of my step-father—he’s not my step-dad, just my step-father—kicking one of my step-brothers, or maybe both, as they cry out in pain, and suddenly I’m eight years old again, wearing my mother’s green high heels with pink-patterned socks as I witness him hit them for the first time, and I watch myself scream at my mother, still then the best person in the world to me, to leave him, the monster; something we have in common.

It ends before I’m aware it begins.

The dim light crawls across my skin, and I hear mocking laughs resound in my ear drums. I search frantically for the source, then I’m on the ceiling, and thirteen-year-old me’s eye catches a misplaced razor amongst the dust, gleaming and winking at her in the yellow light.