olly braswell : d7 : fin
May 6, 2017 8:07:22 GMT -5
Post by goat on May 6, 2017 8:07:22 GMT -5
olly braswell
16
male
district 7
16
male
district 7
My mother drags me inside by my arm. I dig my heels into the ground, but her grip is strong. “This is the last time you run away from this house,” she growls.
I let my body go limp. My mother curses and tries to pull me to my feet. Unbeknownst to her, I’ve been practicing my passive resistance. She eventually gives up, dropping me to the floor. “You better watch yourself,” she spits, and I wait until her footsteps disappear before pushing myself to my feet.
I’m careful not to make a sound as I walk to my bedroom. Collapsing onto my too-small bed provides no comfort to my 6 foot frame. I hang off every edge unless I curl into the fetal position, so I draw my bony legs to my chest. My hair falls in front of my pale face. I push my brown curls back behind my ears. It feels greasy under my hands. I need a shower. And a haircut. And a new set of clothes.
I’ve been wearing the same clothes all week. Since I tend to not be at home, where all my clothes are, I wear what I have on for as long as I can. I don’t always smell the best, but it’s not really a concern to me. The shirt I have on now feels too itchy, so I pull it over my head. It catches briefly on my hooked nose. Once the shirt has been thrown across my room, I adjust my position again. My ribs poke out against my skin, and lying directly on them without a shirt hurts. I cracked two of them a long time ago, but I never got it looked at, and they healed bad. I get a lot of injuries that I don’t take care of, so I’m often seen with cuts and bruises.
Why do I get hurt so much? Simply put, I can’t keep my mouth shut. I say whatever comes to mind, no filter, no edits. I don’t think about the potential consequences before I talk. This leads to a lot of arguments, which leads to a lot of fights. I’m not the best fighter. My bark is bigger than my bite. Still, I never say no to a good round of fisticuffs.
Other kids don’t really like me. Neither do my parents. It doesn't bother me much at this point in my life, I accepted it a long time ago. I don’t think it’s unfair either. I’m not the type of person that makes a fun friend. I’m blunt, and angry, and rude. It’s not my problem that people don’t want to deal with that.
I certainly wasn’t born rebellious. It developed along the way. I was sick of constantly feeling put down by my parents. I didn't want to spend the rest of my life feeling small. I stopped doing what they told me, I made my own opinions known, I started to fight back. My body and spirit are the only things I own entirely, and I’m not going to let anybody crush it.
My parents resent me because they didn’t want a kid. Simple as that. I asked them why they didn’t give me to an orphanage, and my father said they had to live with their punishment. Good parents don’t describe their children as a “punishment”, I quickly learned as a child, but there was nothing I could do about it. Your parents are your parents and that’s that, I thought. I was raised to hate myself, to believe I was nothing more that a burden. I thought I deserved the constant shouts and beatings.
When I was thirteen, I met a boy. He came from the same sort of family I did, but he was so, so different. He was happy, and he entered every day with his head held high. I couldn’t understand how he didn’t let himself become consumed by the darkness that surrounded him. He told me he wasn’t going to let anybody decide his life for him. He was going to be who he wanted to be. I remember thinking that was the most incredible thing I’d ever heard.
I wish he could’ve stayed with me forever. He was killed by a family member about a year after we met. I didn’t let myself grieve for him. It wasn’t what he would have wanted. Instead, I decided I was going to adopt the attitude he’d carried. I was going to take my future into my own hands. I stopped cowering in front of my parents and stood my ground. I began running away, and they always found me, but I knew each time I did it, I wore away at their armor.
This is not the type of world where hiding in fear will do you any good. If you don’t stand up and fight back, you might as well be good as dead. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to die. I want to live.
I let my body go limp. My mother curses and tries to pull me to my feet. Unbeknownst to her, I’ve been practicing my passive resistance. She eventually gives up, dropping me to the floor. “You better watch yourself,” she spits, and I wait until her footsteps disappear before pushing myself to my feet.
I’m careful not to make a sound as I walk to my bedroom. Collapsing onto my too-small bed provides no comfort to my 6 foot frame. I hang off every edge unless I curl into the fetal position, so I draw my bony legs to my chest. My hair falls in front of my pale face. I push my brown curls back behind my ears. It feels greasy under my hands. I need a shower. And a haircut. And a new set of clothes.
I’ve been wearing the same clothes all week. Since I tend to not be at home, where all my clothes are, I wear what I have on for as long as I can. I don’t always smell the best, but it’s not really a concern to me. The shirt I have on now feels too itchy, so I pull it over my head. It catches briefly on my hooked nose. Once the shirt has been thrown across my room, I adjust my position again. My ribs poke out against my skin, and lying directly on them without a shirt hurts. I cracked two of them a long time ago, but I never got it looked at, and they healed bad. I get a lot of injuries that I don’t take care of, so I’m often seen with cuts and bruises.
Why do I get hurt so much? Simply put, I can’t keep my mouth shut. I say whatever comes to mind, no filter, no edits. I don’t think about the potential consequences before I talk. This leads to a lot of arguments, which leads to a lot of fights. I’m not the best fighter. My bark is bigger than my bite. Still, I never say no to a good round of fisticuffs.
Other kids don’t really like me. Neither do my parents. It doesn't bother me much at this point in my life, I accepted it a long time ago. I don’t think it’s unfair either. I’m not the type of person that makes a fun friend. I’m blunt, and angry, and rude. It’s not my problem that people don’t want to deal with that.
I certainly wasn’t born rebellious. It developed along the way. I was sick of constantly feeling put down by my parents. I didn't want to spend the rest of my life feeling small. I stopped doing what they told me, I made my own opinions known, I started to fight back. My body and spirit are the only things I own entirely, and I’m not going to let anybody crush it.
My parents resent me because they didn’t want a kid. Simple as that. I asked them why they didn’t give me to an orphanage, and my father said they had to live with their punishment. Good parents don’t describe their children as a “punishment”, I quickly learned as a child, but there was nothing I could do about it. Your parents are your parents and that’s that, I thought. I was raised to hate myself, to believe I was nothing more that a burden. I thought I deserved the constant shouts and beatings.
When I was thirteen, I met a boy. He came from the same sort of family I did, but he was so, so different. He was happy, and he entered every day with his head held high. I couldn’t understand how he didn’t let himself become consumed by the darkness that surrounded him. He told me he wasn’t going to let anybody decide his life for him. He was going to be who he wanted to be. I remember thinking that was the most incredible thing I’d ever heard.
I wish he could’ve stayed with me forever. He was killed by a family member about a year after we met. I didn’t let myself grieve for him. It wasn’t what he would have wanted. Instead, I decided I was going to adopt the attitude he’d carried. I was going to take my future into my own hands. I stopped cowering in front of my parents and stood my ground. I began running away, and they always found me, but I knew each time I did it, I wore away at their armor.
This is not the type of world where hiding in fear will do you any good. If you don’t stand up and fight back, you might as well be good as dead. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to die. I want to live.
