Post by cinnamin on Jan 30, 2010 21:19:46 GMT -6
So, I wrote this maybe a year or two ago. This was actually one of the most interesting dreams I had last year - this is what I felt during it. It might not make sense, but I like it enough to post it.
I had found something – something big enough to change the lives of everyone in our crazy town – but I was not enough to fight it. They had already planned for someone like me, and it was surprising that they had not gotten rid of me yet. They could have easily just put me out of my misery, but no. They were dragging me through this whole scheme to set up their horrid plan, but they were going to kill me.
A knife to the throat, they thought, was the best way to do it, but they did not know me – did not know my will to live.
So they pressed the cold steel against my throat while whispering how everything would fall to pieces after I died. They said they were saving me from the pain – had picked me out to be exempt from all of the suffering. Imagine that – they had chosen me! It could make me laugh!
I had been left out of everything! Last one picked for sports, never had a girlfriend, never had a real friend. I was a nobody, yet they claimed to have chosen me to be spared?! Probably out of pity.
Either they did not want me to share the torture of the people that think they belong, or they were only pulling my leg. What a joke it would have been to make me think someone actually cared for once! That would be so cruel – giving me hope when there was none, but I wouldn’t fall for it. They chose me to make me suffer, and I was going to prove that they chose wrong!
Then they tried to cut my throat, but I knew when they would. All they got was a gash beneath my right ear, and then I ran. I escaped their deathtrap, but the wound they had inflicted was still grievous.
I could feel the blood bubbling up as my heart desperately tried to pump it into my head. It oozed from the broken skin, a red slime between the fingers that were trying to stem the tide. Even as I slid outside into the cold snow, I could feel it crusting on my fingers and neck, but it would not stop. I felt as though someone were plastering masses of red sandpaper to the side of my face. I had told them to stop, but they kept on lathering each piece with rusty glue before slapping it on me.
Then I started getting lightheaded. I could not think, but I knew that I had to get to the hospital and soon. Losing this much blood was already affecting me, so it was probably only a matter of minutes. Still, my legs would not carry me faster than a slow walk.
Then a car drove up. I did not think it would stop for my feeble attempts at flagging it down, but for some odd reason, it did. I will never understand why she had to be the one driving; it would be a miracle if she actually helped me.
“Hospital,” I choked, my voice barely a whisper.
“I – um – I have to be somewhere really fast,” she excused herself, as if the very thought of me in her car terrified her “I don’t think…”
“No!” I wheezed, “I have to get to the hospital!”
“Fine! I’ll give you a ride!” she shouted, “Just stop taking! You’re so disgusting!”
I did not know if I really wanted the ride after that, but I had to choose between a ride with her or dying on the sidewalk. I chose the agonizing ride, not that it did me any good.
Instead of heeding my pleas and taking me where I so desperately needed to go, she stopped at my family’s house and kicked me to the curb. As she drove away, the words “what a freak” floated back to me on the breeze.
I hung my head in sorrow. Not only had she proven to me what I already knew – the school populous would never accept me even with dire consequences – the house in front of me was jumping with heavy music. I had warned my parents and siblings that something horrible was going to happen, but they obviously had not listened – not that it was unexpected.
They were my adoptive parents. They had gotten me when they had though they could not have children, but when I was only two, they had found otherwise. They had six children naturally after that, and they treated me like the spawn of Satan. They hated me, they ignored me, they punished me for nothing; but those six other children, they spoiled. Fancy cars, expensive cell phones, brand-name clothes: those two gave their children everything, and those children treated me like their slave. I had to clean, cook, do whatever they wished; so when my adoptive father’s parents came to live with us, I thought they would just add to the troubles force on me. I was wrong.
My grandparents hated their son, and they loved me. They were the only people that I could run to; they were my only friends. They had taken me up in their hot-air balloon and had shown me their amazingly crazy inventions. They were my hope of salvation that night, and their light had been on. I had a chance.
The moment I opened the front door, my hopes were dashed.
The youngest brother ran by, tripping me and making me stumble into the banister. It hit my face, and the huge scab on the side of my head opened up again.
Blood poured down, staining the shoulder of my shirt, but the lovely siblings of mine did not notice. The youngest sister shoved me off the banister and back into the closed front door. The second youngest brother took a wild swing at me with a baseball bat and broke a few of my ribs.
I took a shaky step forward, and the assault came to its climax. The oldest sister, my most hated enemy and torturer, came down the stair to slap me hard across the face. My scab opened up even wider at the aggravation, and her hand came away covered in my blood.
“Where were you?!” she screamed “You had to clean my room and bathroom! Joseph needed you for fencing practice, and – EW!! OH MY GOD!! You’re so disgusting! Get outta the house RIGHT NOW!”
I would have chuckled at her reaction to my bloodied appearance, but I was so tired. My eyes barely stayed open, and the whole world spun around me. My vision blurred, and all of a sudden, I was falling. Everything rushed by me – the past that had tortured me, the present that had caused this, and the future that would never be. It was all over, and I fell to the floor.
My blood soaked into the welcome mat beneath me, and it struck my dying mind as ironic. My adoptive parents had bought it to fake their good-nature, so it read: “All the weary shall find refuge here.” All the weary that had crossed into this house had been thrown back out the door again. They would have done the same with me, but the adoption agency would not let them give me up. The agency should have let them dump me back into the pool of orphans. I would have found a better home and would not have been dying on the welcome mat. That other family would have gotten me to the hospital already, but I guess I was just destined to die.
Maybe my blood would finally expose my fake family for the evil people that they were. I could be a martyr, dying for my beliefs, but I knew they would find some way to discredit the facts that my dead body would reveal. After all, they always had, so I was dying for nothing.
I was still a nobody – nothing.
As my tortured soul began to flee my body, I heard the only two people that had ever cared for me. They came down the stairs, calling my name, pleading for me to open my eyes, hoping I would get up.
It was too late.
All they could do was hold me close and whisper sweet nothings in my ear. They said it would be all right, and they were right. I was dying, but I was going to a place where more than just two people would love me.
I was finally free.
Dying
I had found something – something big enough to change the lives of everyone in our crazy town – but I was not enough to fight it. They had already planned for someone like me, and it was surprising that they had not gotten rid of me yet. They could have easily just put me out of my misery, but no. They were dragging me through this whole scheme to set up their horrid plan, but they were going to kill me.
A knife to the throat, they thought, was the best way to do it, but they did not know me – did not know my will to live.
So they pressed the cold steel against my throat while whispering how everything would fall to pieces after I died. They said they were saving me from the pain – had picked me out to be exempt from all of the suffering. Imagine that – they had chosen me! It could make me laugh!
I had been left out of everything! Last one picked for sports, never had a girlfriend, never had a real friend. I was a nobody, yet they claimed to have chosen me to be spared?! Probably out of pity.
Either they did not want me to share the torture of the people that think they belong, or they were only pulling my leg. What a joke it would have been to make me think someone actually cared for once! That would be so cruel – giving me hope when there was none, but I wouldn’t fall for it. They chose me to make me suffer, and I was going to prove that they chose wrong!
Then they tried to cut my throat, but I knew when they would. All they got was a gash beneath my right ear, and then I ran. I escaped their deathtrap, but the wound they had inflicted was still grievous.
I could feel the blood bubbling up as my heart desperately tried to pump it into my head. It oozed from the broken skin, a red slime between the fingers that were trying to stem the tide. Even as I slid outside into the cold snow, I could feel it crusting on my fingers and neck, but it would not stop. I felt as though someone were plastering masses of red sandpaper to the side of my face. I had told them to stop, but they kept on lathering each piece with rusty glue before slapping it on me.
Then I started getting lightheaded. I could not think, but I knew that I had to get to the hospital and soon. Losing this much blood was already affecting me, so it was probably only a matter of minutes. Still, my legs would not carry me faster than a slow walk.
Then a car drove up. I did not think it would stop for my feeble attempts at flagging it down, but for some odd reason, it did. I will never understand why she had to be the one driving; it would be a miracle if she actually helped me.
“Hospital,” I choked, my voice barely a whisper.
“I – um – I have to be somewhere really fast,” she excused herself, as if the very thought of me in her car terrified her “I don’t think…”
“No!” I wheezed, “I have to get to the hospital!”
“Fine! I’ll give you a ride!” she shouted, “Just stop taking! You’re so disgusting!”
I did not know if I really wanted the ride after that, but I had to choose between a ride with her or dying on the sidewalk. I chose the agonizing ride, not that it did me any good.
Instead of heeding my pleas and taking me where I so desperately needed to go, she stopped at my family’s house and kicked me to the curb. As she drove away, the words “what a freak” floated back to me on the breeze.
I hung my head in sorrow. Not only had she proven to me what I already knew – the school populous would never accept me even with dire consequences – the house in front of me was jumping with heavy music. I had warned my parents and siblings that something horrible was going to happen, but they obviously had not listened – not that it was unexpected.
They were my adoptive parents. They had gotten me when they had though they could not have children, but when I was only two, they had found otherwise. They had six children naturally after that, and they treated me like the spawn of Satan. They hated me, they ignored me, they punished me for nothing; but those six other children, they spoiled. Fancy cars, expensive cell phones, brand-name clothes: those two gave their children everything, and those children treated me like their slave. I had to clean, cook, do whatever they wished; so when my adoptive father’s parents came to live with us, I thought they would just add to the troubles force on me. I was wrong.
My grandparents hated their son, and they loved me. They were the only people that I could run to; they were my only friends. They had taken me up in their hot-air balloon and had shown me their amazingly crazy inventions. They were my hope of salvation that night, and their light had been on. I had a chance.
The moment I opened the front door, my hopes were dashed.
The youngest brother ran by, tripping me and making me stumble into the banister. It hit my face, and the huge scab on the side of my head opened up again.
Blood poured down, staining the shoulder of my shirt, but the lovely siblings of mine did not notice. The youngest sister shoved me off the banister and back into the closed front door. The second youngest brother took a wild swing at me with a baseball bat and broke a few of my ribs.
I took a shaky step forward, and the assault came to its climax. The oldest sister, my most hated enemy and torturer, came down the stair to slap me hard across the face. My scab opened up even wider at the aggravation, and her hand came away covered in my blood.
“Where were you?!” she screamed “You had to clean my room and bathroom! Joseph needed you for fencing practice, and – EW!! OH MY GOD!! You’re so disgusting! Get outta the house RIGHT NOW!”
I would have chuckled at her reaction to my bloodied appearance, but I was so tired. My eyes barely stayed open, and the whole world spun around me. My vision blurred, and all of a sudden, I was falling. Everything rushed by me – the past that had tortured me, the present that had caused this, and the future that would never be. It was all over, and I fell to the floor.
My blood soaked into the welcome mat beneath me, and it struck my dying mind as ironic. My adoptive parents had bought it to fake their good-nature, so it read: “All the weary shall find refuge here.” All the weary that had crossed into this house had been thrown back out the door again. They would have done the same with me, but the adoption agency would not let them give me up. The agency should have let them dump me back into the pool of orphans. I would have found a better home and would not have been dying on the welcome mat. That other family would have gotten me to the hospital already, but I guess I was just destined to die.
Maybe my blood would finally expose my fake family for the evil people that they were. I could be a martyr, dying for my beliefs, but I knew they would find some way to discredit the facts that my dead body would reveal. After all, they always had, so I was dying for nothing.
I was still a nobody – nothing.
As my tortured soul began to flee my body, I heard the only two people that had ever cared for me. They came down the stairs, calling my name, pleading for me to open my eyes, hoping I would get up.
It was too late.
All they could do was hold me close and whisper sweet nothings in my ear. They said it would be all right, and they were right. I was dying, but I was going to a place where more than just two people would love me.
I was finally free.