digging up old memories

Today I was looking through some stuff on my computer, and I found a piece of writing that I actually really like. Yes, I wrote this, and to be honest, I can't believe I did. I'm pretty impressed with myself, quite frankly. Good job, younger Faith. Haha. Anyways, I'm just gonna share it here. You're welcome to leave feedback and stuff. I will now go to bed because I've got school tomorrow.

The Anniversary 

The last time I saw him...I try not to think about it. But the memories come anyway, cascading down in a white torrent of reminiscence. I shut my eyes tightly, trying to close out the sounds of banging and metal grinding against metal. His face suddenly shimmers into my mind. Those eyes, cold and emotionless... But only towards her. Whenever I looked at him his eyes melted into love and care. A smile would grow on his chapped lips, and his arms would open, inviting me into a warm embrace. 

I never hugged him. I never hugged him because those were the same arms that would cause streams of crimson ink to run down her head, the same hands that would ball into hard fists and hit her over and over and over till she couldn't even open her eyes, lest the last thing she would ever see was this heartless monster. If he came closer to finish her off, she would hold her breath, hold it for as long as possible, lest the last thing she smelled was the pungent stench of eye-watering alcohol. 

The last time I saw him, he was sprawled over the living room floor, bleeding to death. If there was anything he deserved, that was it. Death. I remember the look of betrayal he had worn in his last seconds of living. 

"Why?" He'd managed to croak. 

I stayed silent, proud of my act of vengeance. He loved me, I knew he did. But I couldn't love a man who was violent and brutal. Not towards her. Not towards her. 

Gripping the blade tightly in my hand, I bent over him, scrutinizing the gory wound in his chest. 

"Because you deserve it," I hissed coldly. 

      I'd never intended the murder of my father. Maybe he didn't expect my mother to pass out and die from his series of constant blows, either. But who am I kidding? He hit her like he wanted her to die. And when she did, I lost it. My mother, who put up with this horrendous beast just so I could still lead a "normal" life, my mother who died whilst in an abusive relationship, because she knew that if she were to leave, she would have taken me. She didn't do that, however. She didn't do that because she knew she had no financial aid and I wouldn't be able to continue my education and we'd be homeless on the streets. 

But maybe that would have been better for her. 

I open my eyes once more and stare at the gray wall opposite me. I run my fingers through my hair and smile. Today is the fifth anniversary of my father's death, the day I murdered him, finished him off, gave him the only thing he was worthy of having. And there's no where I'd rather be, than here in my cell, away from my mother's never-ending screams for help, away from the smell of alcohol that always lingered in the air.

So yes! I hope you liked that. Dark things are cool. 

xx. 

Bonded

The sun bites hard on my back, my arms and my face as I squat over the countless unwanted weeds that crowd around the rows of ant-infested sugar cane. I watch my burnt hands mechanically pull out weeds, handful by handful, as I have been doing for years. I carelessly throw each handful into the sack strapped to my back. My dark toes dig further and further into the mud. I pause for a second and wipe the sweat off my face, then I resume the monotonous routine of pulling weeds. Yank, throw, yank, throw, wipe sweat off brow, fall onto butt. Not too far off, I hear the angry voice of my master, then the lash of a whip, followed by the agonising scream of a worker. I wince and continue to work, faster this time.

I am a sugarcane worker here in the Philippines, where they pay me 150 pesos (or 3.50 USD) each day. I am trying to help pay off the huge loan my father borrowed years back, but it just keeps getting bigger and bigger. My father, unfortunately is now dead and my mother is too weak to work, therefore I, as the eldest have to step up to earn money. My name is Dante, I am 15. I am the eldest. I am hungry. 

When I come home, I find my mother gone, and my 12-year-old sister, Diwata, sprawled across the linoleum floor, weeping. My face contorts into a confused but concerned expression as I quickly embrace her in my arms and ask, “Diwi, what is wrong? What is wrong?” She looks up, her hair matted in wet, salty slabs all over her face and sobs even louder. She screams, “They took mama! And they are going to take me, too!” I am angry now. 

“Where?” I ask, almost shouting. Tears staining my face, blurring my vision. 

“They…they took her to j-jail,” Diwata stammers. 

“And where are they going to take you?” 

Diwata shivers violently. “They… they want to sell me to men,” her voice wavers as she barely manages to finish the sentence. Her big, dark eyes seemed to plead with me, to help us escape this living hell. With my eyes I tell her I don’t know what to do. I feed a huge blow to the floor and continue to punch the surface till my fist hurts and blood trickles down my arm in a stream of red ink. Suddenly the door to my dimly lit house flies wide open, letting in the sour smells of the night. Two large men march in. One man carries handcuffs, and the other, a baseball bat. 

“You,” one of the men grunts, pointing to Diwi with a long finger, “come here.” 

Diwata looks at me with fear so thick, it makes my hair stand on end. “No.. No, Dante you can’t let them! You have to get us out of this-“ 

But it’s too late. They roughly grab her dark chocolate, stick-thin arms and cuff them behind her back. She desperately screams for help but no one, not even the neighbours come. They’re too afraid. I arrive to my senses. I have to save my sister, I have to save us, and somehow I’ll pay back all the money that we owe and we’ll be happy. I stand up. I am weak and hungry, but I somehow feel courage and bravery seep into my bones. I walk up to one of the men and punch him squarely in the face. He looks at me, and slowly his face twists into one of the most evil, and angriest I’ve ever seen. He grins and furiously returns the blow with his baseball bat. I fly across the room and hit my head, hard. “No!” My sister screams. I touch the back of my head and notice that my hair is caked in some sort of damp liquid. I look at my fingers and see them coated in red, red blood. 

As I attempt to get up but the two men surround me and start beating me up with what seems like all their might. They punch me all over, they kick and slap me in horrendous places and each time I try to get up, I am engulfed in a mass of agony, torture and regret. I beg them to stop, pleading at the top of my lungs, my voice cracking each time. But they only laugh as they hurt me even more, the pain unbearable and so excruciating to the point where dying starts to sound a lot better than trying to survive this horrific episode. Diwata screams and weeps and howls as she watches me get beaten to a pulp. “Your father never should’ve borrowed any money,” one of the men says coldly, as he finishes me off. 

I am broken all over. Blood is spilling from various places and I am in so much pain. The battle between Death and I raging like fire, and increasingly bloody. But one side is winning, it’s on its way to victory. And it isn’t me. “I love you, Diwi,” I croak weakly. My sister’s desperate pleading starts becoming muffled and inaudible, and I soon realise that my vision is growing dimmer and blurrier and that the pain dilutes bit by bit, no longer unbearable. This is the end.

End. 

Note: This is not an essay. It's not allowed to be, anyway.  I don't really quite know what it is. Though I think it floats somewhere between a dialogue thingy to a short story. I do hope you liked it. 

cause I can't put to bed these phobias and fears

Hello.

So I'm feeling kind of inspired to write something right now. Like a short short story.

Here goes:

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I've never really stood out. I've always blended in. A wallflower, they call it. But a wallflower is different from what I am. It's hard to notice me, since I've always avoided having to mix with other life forms. Or maybe other life forms have always avoided having to mix with me. Either way, it doesn't matter. Talking to other people has never really interested me. I don't really know why. Maybe I'm scared of being judged, but then again, I probably always am.

I'm pretty normal with a tinge of less-than-average. Or maybe it's the other way round. I wouldn't say it's hard being me, I'd really rather go with saying it's different being me. I'm one of those people who don't own a pair of denim skinny jeans or tank tops or crop cuts or whatever. I don't even know how I know what they're called. Slightly ashamed of that. I most definitely do not by all means like make up. The stuff scares me. I do remember though, back in 3rd grade, when my class was performing in a play. I was assigned the part of a fairy princess, and it was a disaster. I refused to be dressed in a large poofy gown that looked as though it had been bathed in glitter, washed in glitter, and dried in glitter. I also refused to get one bit of make up on my face.

I'd kick and scream, basically frightening the poor make up artist, and yelling that I did not want to be the fairy princess. Luckily for the play's sake, my role was changed to an ever-so-glamorous bush. They replaced me with a girl called Lauren Winslet. Who I saw was decked in layer after thick layer of bright -and get this- glittery make up. It's no surprise that Lauren is part of that group of "popular" girls that strut about the crowded school hallways living the high school dream. Oh wait, she's not part of the group, she leads it.

Anyhow, I've given up on the music they play on the radio these days and I'm always seen with my nose buried deep inside a book. If mixing with others is something I can't do, being a total anti-social is something that I most definitely can. However, I'm not an ignorant person. I like observing. A lot. I like observing people. Or animals. Or weather. Basically everything. You know, I'm the kind of person everyone calls a "weirdo". But I don't mind, really. Because well, it's true.

Sometimes, though, I find it very difficult being that girl who wears straight cut jeans and T-shirts with names of bands that nobody knows. That girl who always has a paperback novel in the grasp of her hands. That girl who doesn't own a single pair of heels or ballet flats. That girl who ties her hair back in a neat ponytail. Is this what people call "being yourself"? If being yourself is what's encouraged, then why are we judged for being the people we are. Or maybe, we're not who we are. Maybe, our true selves are waiting to be revealed in some revolutionary way. Maybe we're just shaping ourselves in the narrow, rigid way everyone wants us to. And maybe we're only just preventing ourselves from being the person we really are.

Maybe we're scared of that person, the one we call, Myself.

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Yeah so yeah. I've not written an actual anything in a while so this is kind of bad-ish, but I hope you liked it kinda. I kinda like things that make you think. So yeah. Maybe I'll do more of these when I have the time, yeah?

xx