Oooh pick Daniel (if you think it fits)! I think this is amazing btw, written in a really interesting and engaging way :)
I'm not crazy, I'm just a little unwell. I know, right now you can't tell. But stay a while and maybe then you'll see A different side of me Unwell - Matchbox 20
"Why inflict pain on oneself, when so many others are ready to save us the trouble?"
George Pacaud (1879 - 1937)
Thanks guys- I never get any positive comments about my writing, I feel compelled to write more. Oh and I think David fits, I can see him as David now.
I thought I'd let you guys help me with some of the minor details, naming etc, and I wondered what you think of the time and age thing? (Personally I quite like it and I may find some odd and clever way to iuse it.) But yes, anything to add?
System A
Sophie Mandi Max Gwen Mercy Erin AVA Tracey Bridget My Isaac
It is five thirteen. I am sixteen years old. I am clean. My wet hair has decided to drape itself over my shoulder and I pick at a split end. I like the way I can spilt it right to my scalp, or just pull it out. It all depends if I’m in a constructive or destructive mood I think. I run a hand up my now smooth legs, if you don’t count the scars that is. I walk to my room, turn on the light, with my still damp hands and collapse onto my bed. I know I have an economics essay waiting for me deep in the belly of my school bag and, thank god, a maths paper. Maths has always been a little bit of a strong point for me, I can’t really remember why I liked it to start with, I guess I must have been that keen child in class.
I don’t really want to have to face my parents when they get home; I have apparently been ‘abusing my privileges’ by taking the bus to town one Saturday without telling them. But sometimes I just want to get out; sometimes I don’t care who I tell or where I go. Often I don’t tell them because when I leave the house I don’t know where I am going, my feet walk me to my destination not my brain. I just concentrate on counting the steps.
I know all the numbers for my room. My room is safe. I had to measure and re-measure all of my walls once when I was younger- I think I thought the walls would fall in if I didn’t. I don’t care about the exact numbers as much anymore they can be so hard to keep track off, however my room is a different matter. My room is safe, every number is held in my blue notebook. They are safe there and they sit on the little straight blue lines and they make perfect sense.
I am not feeling to great today, actually that’s an understatement. It doesn’t take long for my warped little brain to find what it is looking for. And you know what; I’m okay with that for now. 10 more, as always. Sharp, sweet and calming. I’m used to my own little regime now, I cut and cover and clean. It’s easy. Easy as 1, 2, 3.
System A
Sophie Mandi Max Gwen Mercy Erin AVA Tracey Bridget My Isaac
(I also thought I'd try to use major events from age 4,8 and 12 but have a continued story for 16? Comments? Eventually the events will blend in together and if you read from section to section of ages we could almost have a life time?)
System A
Sophie Mandi Max Gwen Mercy Erin AVA Tracey Bridget My Isaac
It is approximately two forty-six. I am four years old. I haven’t had time to work out exactly when I am and this scares me but I don’t have time to work out when I am. I am running. I won’t be able to keep running for long my legs hurt and I’m not breathing properly. I don’t know who is chasing me anymore I just know that if I am able to get to the tree I am safe, there is a playground assistant over there. I slip and fall on the grass. I can already imagine the grass stains that have imbedded themselves into my knees and skirt; I can imagine my mummy telling me I am not careful enough. I think of my lunchbox, stolen again today and I can’t cope with the thought of having to tell her both those things in one day. I could tell daddy but if I do he will tell mummy, he says he is ‘obligated to’. He likes to tell me long words when I ask a question he doesn’t know the answer to. I cover my head and wait to be punched or kicked but no one does. This worries me and I stay very still, trying to catch my breath. I feel a hand reach down and touch my head. Then a sharp tug. I feel some of my hair rip out along with my hairband. I know it’s not much but it’s sort of a last straw for me. So for the first time ever I stand up, I take four punches from the largest fattest boy, his name is Freddie, and then with my fists clenched tight I put out a hand and catch him in the face. I hear a squeal and crunch.
This would be the time the assistant chose to turn around. At two fifty-seven I sit in the headmaster’s office with one of the boys who took my hairband. I haven’t said a word but the other boy has, he says that I started it, that he would never hit a girl, and that anything I say will be a lie. So I don’t open my mouth, just in case the headmaster believes the boy.
The boy asks where Freddie has gone and the headmaster says he is going to hospital, that I broke his nose. I have to stop myself from gasping out when I hear this, I didn’t think I was big enough to break anyone yet. The headmaster asks me if I have anything to say in my defence.
I don’t know what a defence is but I know I didn’t want to talk so I shook my head. I don’t want to be thought a liar. I think next time I should let them hit me. I get told off less so I think that is the right thing. I still don’t ask if I am right, I don’t like to talk and I don’t see why I have to. I think I don’t really trust letters anymore.
System A
Sophie Mandi Max Gwen Mercy Erin AVA Tracey Bridget My Isaac
It is five twenty-one in the morning. I am eight years old. I am sitting on my floor. I feel really sick and I don’t know why. I haven’t eaten anything nasty and I felt okay when I went to bed last night. I felt okay but then I remembered that I have to go to school tomorrow and that makes me feel a little funny, like the corners of everything are spinning a little. I think I’m a little bit afraid.
I don’t know how I can help myself anymore, I have to go there tomorrow, and Mum says that it’s just ‘not an option’ to come and go as I please. Even though I wouldn’t go to school at all if I didn’t have to. I hug my knees to my chest and try to imagine a world where no one could get me, a world where I am safe from all the hurt, from all the people who need to see my cry. I don’t want to have to explain myself to my teachers, my mother, and my classmates. I don’t want to have to try so hard to keep happy. Everyone wants to pull me down; I think it must make them feel a little better. The problem with this is that even though they feel ten times better I feel one hundred times worse; it’s proportional to the square of. Sometimes I get a little bit annoyed but it’s mainly with myself for being such a pushover and not being good enough to make them stop. I think I deserve it though and sometimes that makes me feel a little sad.
I feel very sad right now, everything feels all wrong and I don’t know how to make it right. It is so stupid, it’s my fault; of course it is. I should just cope with people bullying me, the teachers don’t mind and none of the other people in my class care. I think that I am just supposed to be hurt.
For just one second I wonder what it would be like to hurt someone else, whether it makes you feel better than them. I wonder who I could hurt- even if I had the chance. I don’t know if I could actually do that to someone else. I glance down at my arm. It is white with only a few darker bruises and flecks. I take a tiny amount on skin between my fingers and I pinch myself. I am surprised- it doesn’t hurt one bit.
System A
Sophie Mandi Max Gwen Mercy Erin AVA Tracey Bridget My Isaac
Wow, i am well and truly hooked to this story missy!
It's brilliant and very well written of course.
I think the numbers are a major part in what makes this story original, interesting and good!
I love your description too =]