I wrote this short story for my class the other day. Just figured I'd share. It's not a true story, but it's based on true events. Someday, I want to write a novel on this subject. Here goes:
Saving Grace
I was that little girl, I thought as I peered down at the aquamarine eyes that looked directly forward to the front of the elevator. Her hair was blonde, and bouncy with curls. Her dress had the exact hue of her rosy red cheeks, and her shoes were shiny and new. She looked like a life-size porcelain doll standing next to the brown haired man, whom I could only assume was her father. Or was he? His hair was ruffled, as if hed just rolled out of bed. He had the look of some of those teenagers that I had frequently seen on their skateboards outside of our apartment complex. He appeared to be in his mid-twenties, with an attractive complexion, yet dressed like he had previously been homeless. His manner was that of an alcoholic, who had not yet been sober for twenty-four hours. The two did not appear to go together, yet they were holding hands. Yes, I was that little girl.
As adorable as those eyes were, as many memories as they may have contained and with just as many stories they may have withheld, there was a definite void. That void that signified pain. For those that have known pain, it is plain as a full moon in a midnight sky. A midnight sky under which lies a home, broken by many indescribable fears, and memories full of untold tears. A sky under which lies a family, broken into pieces, stained by endless neglect and pride. A sky under which lives a small girl who gracefully attempts to survive, as much as she knows how to, everyday.
For it was only yesterday that she sat in front of the television set in a car seat in their family room eating the pieces of an orange she had found in the kitchen. The food tasted indescribably delicious, for in the days she was there, all she could remember consuming was the diet coke that she found on the table. The man in charge of the household will always know her as a part time daughter, someone who is only temporary, and of no consequence. Not that it will ever matter to her father anyway. If the girl was important, maybe her head wouldnt be in pain. Maybe he wouldnt have been as angry at her. All she did was become ill. A coughing spell isnt something to become angry about. But he was. Her mother tried to comfort her, and she did the best that she could, but her father was still displeased. After his obvious agitation had finally come to him, while watching that same television, he stormed off of the couch to get the little girl, who was in tears. Her mother tried to protect her, but her father was stronger. He took her from the comforting arms of her mother, and flew to the bedroom. Ill take care of this! he yelled as he slammed the door shut before her mother could reach her. The mother pounded at the door while her father screamed at the little girl, who was now bawling. No! No! cried her mother, who desperately clambered at the door to reach her blonde haired angel. Thump. The crying stopped.
But it wasnt just the father that didnt care. It wasnt just the father lost in his own pride and stupidity. No. The American Judiciary system had to be involved too. Her mother couldnt afford a lawyer. This little girl was left unprotected, at the mercy of her father, and now at the feet of a judge, with only one decent lawyer in court. People dont know pain. People can never fathom the full effects of their actions; especially when they give complete custody to an abusive bipolar over a caring mother. That is why the girl eats oranges alone. That is why the girl has red stained hair. That is why the girl holds the hand of her father.
That is also why the girl feared when the father was home. When he was away, things were better. She was alone, and he could not hurt her. Being alone becomes a sacred event when pain takes the reins. For when he was home, he was never sober. If he hadnt been out drinking, he would have run to the Circle-K on the corner to pick up a six-pack. That always had the potential to be a deadly combination. But God had His reasons, and he brought the six-pack home. He always drank in his bedroom, which could never sound as horrid as it actually was. No words bring justice to pain. No words bring justice to the feelings evoked by the sounds of bottles breaking against the dressers or on the walls. But that wasnt the worst for the little girl. The worst for that girl was the sound of the creaking door as it opened and shed light into the rest of the house. The little girl hurried from the family room to the kitchen. The flowing tablecloth was her saving grace as she hid next to the wall under the table. Clunk. He stumbled out of the room. She huddled closer to the wall, trembling out of pure fear. Emily his cracking voice was in a drunken half whisper. Emily . where are you? His taunting voice lurked closer with every unsteady footstep. Creeeak. The sole of his beat up Reebok finally hit the linoleum. Emily come out now She stopped breathing as he passed the table. She was paralyzed in sheer terror. He now stood next to her; if she desired, she could reach out and touch his leg. He stood still, as if he had victoriously found her. She heard him raise his arm, laughing with that evil cackle. Her heart pounded heavily in her small chest as she heard the swoosh of his arm coming downward, then the crash as the bottle broke on the table above. He cursed. Obviously proud of this simple achievement, and frustrated that he could not find the little girl, he stumbled his way through the kitchen, then out the front door. That was all the girl saw of him for a day or two. She was safe from her father, but still in danger. Somehow, the teenage boys in the apartment across the hall must have known the little girl was alone. They must have been angels sent directly from heaven. These boys, who took care of her, protected the little girl, and dried the tears from her emerald eyes; tears that provided tangible proof of pain in the purest form.
Yes, I easily detected this pain. Even though she never said anything, I knew her pain. I had felt it before. This blonde haired little angel has stories that will never be told to any soul, and I know this from experience. I know this pain. I know the man whose hand she holds. I see it all too clearly in the blue eyes of that girl. I was that little girl. Now, I am a girl, who has spent my life with the memories and tears of a childhood that never existed. I still live with the pain. I still bear the scars. However, in place of that fear is a longing. A longing that no child shall suffer so much; that never within my reach will anyone live with such pain. That never will a child wake up in a hospital and wonder how they got there. It was once said: I am only one, but I am still one. I cannot do everything, but I can still do something. And because I cannot do everything, I will not let that stop me from doing that something that I can do. I was healed by Gods saving grace. I know the pain. I know how to overcome the hurt. I can make a difference in their lives; in the lives of such creations as this little girl. That is something that this one can do. I am the one that can show them saving grace.
I shift my gaze from the girl to the father, then back again. Such a sight angers me, but the anger fuels my devotion, and causes me to do something about it; for when they find peace, I find peace. I view the monitor overhead: the 17th floor. My floor. Theirs as well. The little girl and the unkempt man make their way down the hall to apartment 1713B, where they have resided for the last two months. For the little girl, this two months has been two too many. Too much pain, too many fears, too many harsh words and scars, and too many tears. I unlock my door, set down my groceries, and go directly to the phone. Today is different. Today is the day that the blonde haired girl will find her saving grace.
Saving Grace
I was that little girl, I thought as I peered down at the aquamarine eyes that looked directly forward to the front of the elevator. Her hair was blonde, and bouncy with curls. Her dress had the exact hue of her rosy red cheeks, and her shoes were shiny and new. She looked like a life-size porcelain doll standing next to the brown haired man, whom I could only assume was her father. Or was he? His hair was ruffled, as if hed just rolled out of bed. He had the look of some of those teenagers that I had frequently seen on their skateboards outside of our apartment complex. He appeared to be in his mid-twenties, with an attractive complexion, yet dressed like he had previously been homeless. His manner was that of an alcoholic, who had not yet been sober for twenty-four hours. The two did not appear to go together, yet they were holding hands. Yes, I was that little girl.
As adorable as those eyes were, as many memories as they may have contained and with just as many stories they may have withheld, there was a definite void. That void that signified pain. For those that have known pain, it is plain as a full moon in a midnight sky. A midnight sky under which lies a home, broken by many indescribable fears, and memories full of untold tears. A sky under which lies a family, broken into pieces, stained by endless neglect and pride. A sky under which lives a small girl who gracefully attempts to survive, as much as she knows how to, everyday.
For it was only yesterday that she sat in front of the television set in a car seat in their family room eating the pieces of an orange she had found in the kitchen. The food tasted indescribably delicious, for in the days she was there, all she could remember consuming was the diet coke that she found on the table. The man in charge of the household will always know her as a part time daughter, someone who is only temporary, and of no consequence. Not that it will ever matter to her father anyway. If the girl was important, maybe her head wouldnt be in pain. Maybe he wouldnt have been as angry at her. All she did was become ill. A coughing spell isnt something to become angry about. But he was. Her mother tried to comfort her, and she did the best that she could, but her father was still displeased. After his obvious agitation had finally come to him, while watching that same television, he stormed off of the couch to get the little girl, who was in tears. Her mother tried to protect her, but her father was stronger. He took her from the comforting arms of her mother, and flew to the bedroom. Ill take care of this! he yelled as he slammed the door shut before her mother could reach her. The mother pounded at the door while her father screamed at the little girl, who was now bawling. No! No! cried her mother, who desperately clambered at the door to reach her blonde haired angel. Thump. The crying stopped.
But it wasnt just the father that didnt care. It wasnt just the father lost in his own pride and stupidity. No. The American Judiciary system had to be involved too. Her mother couldnt afford a lawyer. This little girl was left unprotected, at the mercy of her father, and now at the feet of a judge, with only one decent lawyer in court. People dont know pain. People can never fathom the full effects of their actions; especially when they give complete custody to an abusive bipolar over a caring mother. That is why the girl eats oranges alone. That is why the girl has red stained hair. That is why the girl holds the hand of her father.
That is also why the girl feared when the father was home. When he was away, things were better. She was alone, and he could not hurt her. Being alone becomes a sacred event when pain takes the reins. For when he was home, he was never sober. If he hadnt been out drinking, he would have run to the Circle-K on the corner to pick up a six-pack. That always had the potential to be a deadly combination. But God had His reasons, and he brought the six-pack home. He always drank in his bedroom, which could never sound as horrid as it actually was. No words bring justice to pain. No words bring justice to the feelings evoked by the sounds of bottles breaking against the dressers or on the walls. But that wasnt the worst for the little girl. The worst for that girl was the sound of the creaking door as it opened and shed light into the rest of the house. The little girl hurried from the family room to the kitchen. The flowing tablecloth was her saving grace as she hid next to the wall under the table. Clunk. He stumbled out of the room. She huddled closer to the wall, trembling out of pure fear. Emily his cracking voice was in a drunken half whisper. Emily . where are you? His taunting voice lurked closer with every unsteady footstep. Creeeak. The sole of his beat up Reebok finally hit the linoleum. Emily come out now She stopped breathing as he passed the table. She was paralyzed in sheer terror. He now stood next to her; if she desired, she could reach out and touch his leg. He stood still, as if he had victoriously found her. She heard him raise his arm, laughing with that evil cackle. Her heart pounded heavily in her small chest as she heard the swoosh of his arm coming downward, then the crash as the bottle broke on the table above. He cursed. Obviously proud of this simple achievement, and frustrated that he could not find the little girl, he stumbled his way through the kitchen, then out the front door. That was all the girl saw of him for a day or two. She was safe from her father, but still in danger. Somehow, the teenage boys in the apartment across the hall must have known the little girl was alone. They must have been angels sent directly from heaven. These boys, who took care of her, protected the little girl, and dried the tears from her emerald eyes; tears that provided tangible proof of pain in the purest form.
Yes, I easily detected this pain. Even though she never said anything, I knew her pain. I had felt it before. This blonde haired little angel has stories that will never be told to any soul, and I know this from experience. I know this pain. I know the man whose hand she holds. I see it all too clearly in the blue eyes of that girl. I was that little girl. Now, I am a girl, who has spent my life with the memories and tears of a childhood that never existed. I still live with the pain. I still bear the scars. However, in place of that fear is a longing. A longing that no child shall suffer so much; that never within my reach will anyone live with such pain. That never will a child wake up in a hospital and wonder how they got there. It was once said: I am only one, but I am still one. I cannot do everything, but I can still do something. And because I cannot do everything, I will not let that stop me from doing that something that I can do. I was healed by Gods saving grace. I know the pain. I know how to overcome the hurt. I can make a difference in their lives; in the lives of such creations as this little girl. That is something that this one can do. I am the one that can show them saving grace.
I shift my gaze from the girl to the father, then back again. Such a sight angers me, but the anger fuels my devotion, and causes me to do something about it; for when they find peace, I find peace. I view the monitor overhead: the 17th floor. My floor. Theirs as well. The little girl and the unkempt man make their way down the hall to apartment 1713B, where they have resided for the last two months. For the little girl, this two months has been two too many. Too much pain, too many fears, too many harsh words and scars, and too many tears. I unlock my door, set down my groceries, and go directly to the phone. Today is different. Today is the day that the blonde haired girl will find her saving grace.
