Adelina M. Thorn
“It takes great courage to see the world in all its tainted glory, and still to love it.” - Oscar Wilde
Adelina M. Thorn
“It takes great courage to see the world in all its tainted glory, and still to love it.” - Oscar Wilde
“It takes great courage to see the world in all its tainted glory, and still to love it.” - Oscar Wilde
“It takes great courage to see the world in all its tainted glory, and still to love it.” - Oscar Wilde
I’ve been breaking apart These past couple of weeks I’ve been falling into a rabbit hole Not knowing what it is I seek
Is it truth? Or maybe kindness? Maybe it’s just one person Who doesn’t call me worthless
Failures never stray past your eyes But my successes you’ll let stride I’ve already lost count Of how many nights I’ve uncontrollably cried
Tears do nothing Is what you say With eyes dark and solemn expression Disappointment marring your face
I’ve thought about ending it all More than a couple of times Yet I can’t help but think Would I be running away from all of my problems if I just let myself sink?
Dear daddy, I want to say sorry For not being the best I wanted to apologize For not being like the rest
I’m sorry I screw up At least 5 times a day I’m sorry I’m not like my brother With straight A’s all the way
I’m sorry that I’m worthless That I’m not as smart as him I’m sorry that I could never be the daughter you wanted Who would always win
I’m sorry for trying to be myself I’m sorry for always eating I’m sorry for breathing I’m sorry for being a living being
Poem used : Sorry I’M Not Good Enough by Tianna Webb
Glistening blue eyes sparkle in the lamplight Lipsticked lips red and bright Blonde locks as smooth as silk Can’t you stop making me feel like filth?
A shabby brown frock I wear My makeup tenderly handled yet it still looks like I have no care Face dotted with pimples and pores I’m about as pretty as a wild boar
Shining silver and gold necklaces line your neck Compared to that I look like a wreck A relaxed smile gives off a confident demeanor There’s no doubt I’m anything but inferior
Arms too skinny Face too hollow Legs too boney The faraway look in your eyes is hard to follow
Wide smile as plastic as a doll Stomache not showing any meat at all
Hazel eyes artificially bright Actions mechanically performed Words twisted with a bitter edge What’s this strange though making me feel alarmed?
Kitchen pantry fully stocked all month It’s like all this time you’ve never eaten lunch…
Jackets and sweaters are all you wear You tell me you pick at random as you don’t care So what are the bright red lines peeking through your sleeves? I’ve been caught for years in a lie you weaved
Trigger warning: Child abuse, violence, language, and mentions of alcohol. Ntp. If you’re sensitive to these topics please do not read.
~
My bruised and bloodied hand rests on the doorknob to my apartment as I try to judge if my father is asleep or not.
It’s twelve o’clock at night, and I just came back from a shift at the convenience store all the way across the city. A drunken customer had come in and started throwing around glass bottles and razors in a alchohol-induced havoc. Before he could hit a woman with a ceramic plate, I stepped between them and blocked it from hitting her. The jagged edges tore through my skin, and blood poured from my chest and hands. I quickly forced the man to leave and apologized to the trembling woman, but the damage was done. There were no bandaids or sterile gauze in the store, so all I could do was bite my lip to keep from screaming out in pain and pull the shards out of my chest with my bare hands. It was a tiring day and I hoped to be able to get at least an hour of sleep in, but I knew it was worthless to hope. My father would probably make me go out again and buy him alcohol and cigarettes from a shady store who knows where.
_As if any legal store would sell booze to a 14 year old, _I think bitterly, and open the door, my half asleep and exhausted mind not able to care if I got beat up again.
The overwhelming putrid stench of throw up and alchohol greets me, and I almost gag. Covering my nose with my shirt, I step into the hell I call home.
Broken glass litters the floor, half finished bottles of alchohol scattered across a flimsy wooden table. Rats and cockroaches scurry across the floorboards, picking up remains of decaying food.
In the center of it all, my father lies unconscious on a couch, it’s yellowed stuffing open, a pile of vomit and a kaleidoscope of broken glass surrounding him. The run down TV which only has two channels is still on, replaying footage from a flood that happened 10 years ago. With a pang, I realize that it’s the same flood that killed my mother.
She was the most beautiful woman I had ever met. Not because of her physical beauty, but by the way she treated everyone around her with kindness or compassion, no matter if they were politely talking to her or yelling furiously. She was a surgeon who worked long hours in the night just to see my smiling, joyful face in the morning. When she was alive, my father was a completely different person. He was a professor at a prestigious university, and was caring and protective of me and my mother. I could tell he loved her more than anything in the world from the loving looks that he gave her. Looks that said things like,
I love you.
I’ll protect you.
We’ll always be together.
It was ironic how they all turned out to be lies.
“Luca!” My dad’s drowsy, drunken voice calls out from the couch, breaking me out of the stupor I was in. I widen my eyes and try to control my trembling. He can do anything when he’s drunk. The purple-black bruises on my arms are proof.
“Why the hell are you home so late?” He asks angrily, words slightly slurred together, taking a sip from a half opened bottle of beer on the coffee table.
“There was a drunk customer who trashed the store, so I had to fix it.” I quietly mumble, looking at my feet and pushing my fingernails into the palms of my hands, drawing blood.
_Why am I so scared? _I think furiously at myself. I hated the way he was always drunk and angry, but more than that, I hated the effect he had on me.
“Huh, what the fuck did you just say?” He says furiously, and I keep staring down at my feet, not responding.
Taking deep breathes, I try not to hyperventilate. It feels like the world’s upside down. My head is a jumbled up mess of half finished thoughts and sentences.
Suddenly, I feel a rough hand grab my hair. My father got off the couch, bottle discarded on the floor, and is holding my head.
“You think you’re so fucking special, don’t you?” He says, and I begin to answer when he shivers me against the wall.
It’s peeling paints falls to the floor at the sudden impact of my body, and I bite my lip to stop myself from screaming out in pain. I feel blood poor from my head, but don’t dare whimper out loud. Instead, I look at him with wide, frightened eyes.
“Your mother died because of you, you know that?” He suddenly says in a calm tone. It catches me off guard and I feel something tear in my heart. My brain’s shouting goes silent, and everything is quiet except for the drops of blood dripping on the floor, staining the mahogany a bright red.
“Everything would’ve been better if you weren’t born.” He says harshly, and this time I surprise him by furiously nodding in agreement.
“I’m trying to fix it.” I say, and his eyes narrow and he’s back to his past state.
“And how are you going to fix not being born when you’re already fucking alive.” He says with resentment, but all I do is smile at him. It’s a sad, small little thing. Not meant to be conforting, not meant to show happiness. Just a hollow, empty gesture.
“I wonder.” I say, and count to three then push him off of me and run to the kitchen. He falls to the floor, too shocked at what I’d done to follow after me.
When I find what I’m looking for, I grin and run back. I find him where I’d left him, this time with eyes widened in anger.
“You little bitch-“ He begins to say, but stops when I put the sharp, cool edge of the knife to my throat.
“This will fix everything, won’t it.” I say, then push the tip in.
Blood pours down my body in streams, and the first thing I feel is incredible pain. It feels like not being able to breathe, even the smallest breath hurting me past being able to talk.
I sink to the floor and fall face flat, arms hugged tight around my body in a death grip. My father rushes over to me and pulls the knife from my throat with shaking hands.
I’m surprised when I feel salty drops water on my face, then look up through my scrunched eyes.to see my father crying and trembling.
I smile genuinely this time, and raise a hand up to his face. Touching his wet cheek, I whisper out a final sentence.
“I hope this fixes everything.” I say, and everything around me fades to black.
No one but them knew she had only a day left to live. She had dirty blond hair, matted and coarse yet still somehow remaining glossy and silky. Green eyes that had long since lost their sparkle locks on my face, sorrow and emptiness and a hint of another unnamed emotion coating the dark irises.
“This is our last time talking to each other, huh?” She says with a faraway look in her eyes.
I swallow hard and try to get all the words I wanted to say out of my mouth but couldn’t, couldn’t because they wouldn’t come, no matter how much they burned my tongue like hot coal.
Why didn’t you tell me sooner?
Do you trust me?
I love you.
“You must hate me.” She says suddenly. I stop struggling and widen my eyes in surprise.
Then, she starts laughing loudly. Doubling over in hysterics, she throws her head back and bangs it against the hospital bed’s headboard. I stare at her with shocked eyes.
“Isn’t it ironic that the day you proposed to me is the day I told you I’d be dead?” She says after she’s done. I don’t respond. What could I say?
“You’re a wonderful man.” She says with a hint of sadness.
“You’re a wonderful woman.” I say in response. I don’t say it just to be polite. She was more perfect than anything I could’ve asked for in a lover.
Was.
We sit in a peaceful silence for the next couple of minutes. The horizon changes from a baby blue to light orange, and the edges of her mouth turn upwards slightly and her stress lines on her forehead lessen. For a moment, I’m struck by how young and beautiful she looks. Though we’re both barely 25 years old, time had aged us. Deciding that hopelessly struggling for days in pain would not cure cancer, she decided to let go of the thin, trembling hold she had on the world. It shocked and hurt me l past any physical injury I’ve ever had before. The woman I loved, dead in a day. It was as if this was a tragic love story.
“Esme.” I say, using her first name.
“Yes.” She says calmly, not as a question, but as a remark.
“We still have a day left.” I say, and she turns towards me.
Staring unblinkingly at my face, she realizes what I mean, and her eyes slowly brighten. Dark green turns to a verdant shade, and she truly starts to smile.
“This could be our last chance to be together, why don’t we take it?” I say, and she nods.
Reaching a hand out, I wait for her to take it. Slender fingers touch calloused ones, and I pull her up slowly, making sure not to cause her any pain.
Suddenly, she pulls me towards the door. My eyes widen but I follow along. She turns around hesitantly when her hand graps the knob, a question in her eyes.
Yes?
Yes.
And with that, we walk out towards the future.
I walk into a room covered in what seems to be gallons upon gallons of blood. Reds and dark pink as far as the eye can see. A bed with rose petals strewn across the scarlet blankets. Crimson walls painted in a vivid red, with a slight purplish hue. Bright red lights hang from the shining chandelier above me. On a small mahogany table, books with strange dark red symbols on the covers. I cautiously walk over and examine them closely. Stroking a finger down the spine of one, I can’t help but wonder how the fabric is so smooth.
It feels as if it’s bound in human skin…
I suddenly drop the book at the sickening but very possibly accurate thought. Cupping a hand to my mouth, I run away from the table and sit down on the bed, fighting against the urge to vomit, when hear a loud crunch come from beneath me. I hurriedly stand up and lift the covers. What I find makes me scream out loud in fright.
A beautiful woman in a stunning red dress with luscious blond hair hanging in waves around her her shoulders lies on the bed with her eyes closed and blood pouring out of her mouth, tricking down her body in a thin stream. Dark red scratches cover her legs and arms, but her face is left spotless.
“Wh-who could have done this!” I say out loud, right before I fall to my knees and throw up. My long black hair falls over the sides of my face, and I hold two hands up to cup my ears and stare at the floor covered in throw up and blood, trembling uncontrollably.
“Me.” A deep masculine voice says, and I wildly turn around. A tall man dressed in all black with green eyes and dark brown hair holding a large knife hovers over my small figure. I gasp out loud in shock and fear, paralyzed. The man throws his head back and laughs psychotically. I stare at him fearfully, my trembling not stopping, instead tripling at the sight.
“Ah, you should see the look on your face.” He says, wiping away a tear caused from laughter while smirking at me. I don’t respond and keep looking at him in apprehension.
He suddenly bends down and grabs my chin roughly, tilting it upwards. I widen my eyes at the unexpected gesture and grab his hand with both of mine, but it doesn’t move it an inch.
“What a pretty face.” He says languidly, examining all of me, eyes trailing up and down my body.
“Too bad I’ll have to get rid of you.” He says, and I start to breathe heavily, trying to get words out but they won’t come, no matter how hard I try.
His hand moves up to my neck, pressing my head against the floor with his body on top of mine.
“P-please don’t ki-kill me.” I plead futilely, my voice cracking from terror. He ignores my desperate plea and places the tip of the silver knife on my neck.
“Sweet bloody dreams.” He says with a dark, sadistic grin on his face. Cold metal cuts into my skin, blood pouring out all over the floor, and everything fades to black.
I’m sorry for not being beautiful Tangled black hair and plain brown eyes Are far from the prettiest sight
I’m sorry for not working harder Fainting and black circles around my eyes Aren’t an excuse to not try
I’m sorry for not being better Bright red scars line my arms Feelings of inadequacy led to self harm
I’m sorry for not understanding That you couldn’t ever be proud of me I wouldn’t either, if I had a child so ugly
I’m sorry for feeling inadequate Failing and failing time after time You think that crying is a crime
I’m sorry for not being the best I know you wouldn’t hesitate to give me away for a quarter If in return you got the perfect daughter