Unstoppable

My clock ticks with a steady beat. Thoughts swirl inside my head. The words I know I must write threaten to burst from my firmly shut lips if they can’t escape through my fingers. Heart pounding, I open the blank page. My fingers touch the keys and are pounding the keyboard without hesitation. They seem to have minds of their own. Flying from letter to letter, forming words, then sentences, and finally paragraphs. My story pours out onto the screen in front of me as I continue to type with increased intensity. Unconscious thoughts that I was unaware I had find their way into the story. Working into the darkness, and through the night, my hands speak what I cannot say aloud.

            Posters of paintings surround me, hung on all four walls of my small attic room. Famous works by the masters- Van Gogh, Picasso, Monet, Dali, O’Keeffe and many more- bring color and life onto the crumbling white plaster. My small art set stands in a corner of the room, taking up as little space as possible. Paint tubes and brushes cover the floor around the easel and canvas-my latest masterpiece. On a crate next to my cot bed sits a record player that I found at a yard sale one day. Old, scratched Beatles’ records play on a loop, trying to drown out the noise of the fighting downstairs.

            I hear footsteps on the stairs leading up to the attic and I freeze. Shutting my laptop I creep over to the cot and lay down, throwing the tattered afghan over myself. The door to the attic opens and my mother stumbles in. She noisily makes her way over to the cot. The metal frame creaks and groans under her added weight. With slurred speech she speaks to me, most of it incoherent babble. Her breath reeks of liquor and I push her away as she tries to stroke my face. It is well past 3a.m. and she is just arriving home. Saddened by my rejection, she turns and stumbles out of the room. I get up and close the door behind her, returning to my laptop.

            Temporarily blinded by the bright screen, I resume my writing. My story must be told, and I will be the one to tell it. Maybe one day I will become famous because of it. Then I will get myself out of this place, and start my own life. But for now I am just the lonely girl who sits alone, with the horrible home life, who just wants someone to talk to. My thoughts and opinions matter just as much as anyone else’s. If no one cares to listen, then so be it. That will never stop me from writing what I think. I know who I am, and what my thoughts are, but no one else does. So I will write, and paint, and keep on creating as long as I can. No one can ever take that away from me.

Reviews

[JadeForever]

YES! STORY OF MY LIFE! great job writing this..:D your very talented..love the last line..:D

[Alex Thomas]

A short great piece. The writer has a lot of power and many things make you question her life. I saw a mistake in the first paragraph when you change verb tenses from present to present participle. (touch...pounding) It should be pound. There's beautiful description throughout the piece. A great job!