Thursday, February 3, 2011

I've got a blanket between my teeth, and I'm tearing at it; listening to the fibers snap. My face is red and my hands and back are covered in sweat. I'm growling; I look and sound like a mad dog.

I hate him, I hate him, I hate him.

My writing, it's gone, he took it, he's holding it hostage.

My writing is all I have, it's all I care about. 

I have nothing but my words.

I have nothing but my words.

What do I do? 

Mom, what do I do?

I hate him. I hate him so much. 

The couch is unbearable. I can't sit there any longer. I move to the floor where I crouch down and beat the green carpet with my fists. Grandma wanders out of her bedroom to find me in a heap on the floor screaming and crying. My mom is a lioness. She pulls me up towards her. She strokes my hair. She kisses my cheek. I let out one last yelp and tell grandma to go back to bed.

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