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Your Writing (A-I) > Grace's Short Stories

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message 1: by Grace (new)

Grace ᵔᴥᵔ (gracepasquale) Hi! I'm Grace and I'm 15. The first story I'm putting here is a short story I at 3 o'clock in the morning - so it probably has it's mistakes. Feel free to give any constructive criticism. (A lot of times I get 1st person and 3rd person confused so you'll probably see that *sigh*) I'd love to know what you think :)

The name of this story is Help
(I know real creative)

Enjoy!

~~~~~~~~~

The ceiling creaks, slow and loud, like nails on a chalk board. The air feels thick and heavy, clinging to my body, weighing me down. Cold wooden floors lay beneath me, glazed in a thick coat of dust. My eyes peel open to reveal darkness. The room is the size of a bathroom, the wooden walls looming over me, squeezing me in. My eyes adjust to the dark, but my vision blurs as I slip in and out of consciousness. My head is heavy against my neck, and any movement feels like someone rolling a strike inside my brain. My body is shivering, despite the pools of sweat dripping over me, and I'm bare except for an unfamiliar night gown on my body. I force myself to sit up, feeling a mix of nausea and achiness, my bones cracking like twigs after being stiff for what feels like weeks.

I look down at myself, and that's when the panic begins to simmer inside of me. The first brief seconds of wakefulness felt calm, not knowing anything was out of the ordinary until my brain fully clicked on. Just like that, from peace to panic. My whole body tenses, I feel a glaze of ice slide up my hot body, and my mind sails out to sea, losing all control. The night gown is old and tattered, an off white color with spots of yellow. Scrapes and bruises cover the entire length of my legs, some scabbing over while others still wet with blood. Big purple and green bruises embellish my arms, along with deep scratch marks on the surface. I touch my shaking hand to my face to feel blood dripping down from several open wounds on my head. My body begins to shake, as if I'm strapped to a wash machine, and the arrival of tears coat my eyes.

"Where am I?" I croak, my words sliding against my throat like sandpaper against medal. Panic twists and squirms, trying to find its way out of me. "No.." I screech in a whisper. "NO." I stand through my body's protests and run from one side of the room to the other, bouncing off wall to wall. The panic unleashes itself out of me, and my self control slides through my fingers. My mind abandons ship, and my senses sink beneath the waves.

Blood and tears slide down my face, a thousand jumbled up thoughts and questions swirl through my mind. I grip my hair between my fingers and yank on it, pounding my head into the wall. "WHERE AM I?" I scream on the top of my lungs. I can feel my tonsils quivering with each scream, seconds from falling from their thread. "HELP. SOMEONE HELP ME" I bang on the walls, and bang and bang and bang. I don't know if it hurts. I can't feel anything. My whole body is numb and useless. But I don't care. I just need to get out of here. I. Need. To. I will get out. Just a few more screams. Few more bangs. A door will appear. I'll leave and go home. Wherever home is. Maybe I am home. And this is all just a dream. Just a dream. Yes. A dream. Please be just a dream.

I scream more. I scream for hours because there's nothing else to do. I've walked, crawled, paced the length of this small room thousands of times, hoping something will appear to get me out. Bundles of my hair litter the floor from me ripping it out, along with hundreds of my feet and hand prints, imprinted into the dust. After what feels like hours I slide against the old and worn walls and fall to the floor. I stop screaming and instead just quietly cry, holding on to the wall. Then I notice something I didn't before; a scratch mark in the wall. I wipe the cloudiness from my eyes and look closely at the walls. Then I see more. There's little scratch marks, hundreds of them. The long lines of torn away wood in every direction.

"Weird." I think to myself. Looking closer I also noticed other things etched in the wall. The more I look I realize they're words. A lot of them.

'Trapped'

'Help'

'Out'

'Help'

'Not crazy'

'Not'

'HELP'

'CRAZY'

The words grow bigger and bigger, some so worn they're barely visible, while others look brand new.

"Weirder." I think. "Strange." I lean hand on the wall, preparing to stand up, and only then do I realize my torn and bloody nails fit perfectly within the thousands of scratch marks.


message 2: by Irene (new)

Irene (wingdesilverii) | 2500 comments Grace wrote: "Hi! I'm Grace and I'm 15. The first story I'm putting here is a short story I at 3 o'clock in the morning - so it probably has it's mistakes. Feel free to give any constructive criticism. (A lot of..."

Overall nicely done, I didn't check for grammatical errors (which I see more than one of), just content errors. The transition from her crazy rampage to the calmness is odd. Also, I feel lost and a little confused. To me this seems as if she has been abused, when in fact these could be self inflicted wounds...


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