Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-36393004-20180911211556

Mother says, “There is nothing you can solve with your fist that you can’t solve with words.”

Father says, “If they step to you, you better whoop their ass or I’m going to whoop yours.”

These two conflicting notions have left me at a stalemate. I have spent the better part of my fourteen years on this planet in utter fear of the consequences of actually defending myself, with words or otherwise. No matter the cruelty I endure I simply sit stoic, unable to react in one way or another. I will hold in my misery until I am once again alone and release it to the pages. It is the only place I seem to feel power.

Even now, as I sit bloodied upon this gym floor, I bite at my tongue until it hurts. There is little to be done for it. My pain has filled me much like a bottle and I can feel it turning about in my gut. I can no longer hold it in and the salty specks of my sorrow sting my wounds. They laugh while pointing at me, the mockery continuing.

Then a sharp echo of lightening erupts within me. The tears that soak my face run almost as a faucet and my body begins to tremble. Every nerve in my body vibrates violently, my chest rising and fallen sporadically. My breaths become audible and their laughter dulls during my rise from the hard wooden floor.

I attempt to calm myself, if only to slow my breathing. It is of no use and soon my vision begins to blur. A tunnel forms in my field of view, the darkness my life had been for years blocks out my peripherals. A face burns into my pupils, the face of the one who had caused my newest agony. Even sound escapes my ears in this moment, all that remains is hatred.

My vision clears amid chaos. There are people running for help, some bent over a limp body on the floor, and at least four older boys are holding my body. There is one on each arm, fighting desperately to keep me from moving. One stands in front of me yelling all manner of profanities and the other has his forearm wrapped tight around my throat. I can barely breathe, let alone speak. All I know for certain is that my hands hurt terribly and I have no earthly idea why.

My actions would have to be relayed to me through a county appointed lawyer, accompanied by a psychiatrist. Images are laid upon the table of what could be mistaken for a raw slab of meat that blood still clung to, as if freshly slaughtered. Needless to say, the boy would not recover and I would not return home. I am told I will be held for treatment until I am able to adequately stand trial and explain my actions.

I have been given comfortable lodging and get daily visits from my family. They all beg me to explain what happened to someone, anyone. They tell me that the psychiatrist will help me. They all seem to think that all I need is a little medication. That would be too easy. I have not spoken since the incident and I don’t think I will. I might just bite my tongue, increasingly harder. Yes, that’s what I will do. I think I can taste blood. 