A Rose, A Torn and the Dirt

This is a short story which takes a glimpse into the mind of a young girl who suffers from bullying at school and the effects that this has on her.


1. Rose


Everything was still dark and the silence rang in the air like thunder.


I woke.


My chest heaved and sweat ran down my forehead and stuck my clothes to my skin. I sat up and let the cold air slap me back into reality; but the dream was still fresh in my mind. In my dreams I was free. Free from the pain and the guilt. Free from the tears and the sadness. In my dreams, I was free to die. Then I wake and I am locked in this cage of fragile skin.

Slowly, each breath became deeper and my mind took control. It was time for me to leave the comforting thought of sleep and face the torment of the day. Being the oldest, and the one whose school is furthest away from home, I have to rise earlier than my younger sister and get ready in the darker hours of the morning. I shiver as I slip into the shower and the icy water hits, then relax as the streams slowly heats.


I step out feeling clean and awake. The steam covers the walls and leaves the mirror cloudy. Every mirror should be cloudy. Cloudy, or broken. Smashed into a million tiny fragments so small you will have no hope to see any reflection of yourself. No hope of seeing any reflection of myself... Yet temptation is much greater than my fear, though regret is battering at my doors and I have to force  my hand every inch closer to wipe the mirror clean.


Her face is hollow. Her skin is sickly yellow in the light of the room. Her large eyes stare pleadingly back at mine, hoping to find herself. But I was as lost as my reflection. I hurried out of the bathroom forcing images from my head.

A tangle of rope in the ceiling and my father's gasp as he spies the body at the end of the rope. Painlessness, the car was driving so fast I didn't register any feeling before all life left me. Falling, and closing my eyes in the ecstasy of my demise.


I put my hands to my ears and shake them out. The tears flow freely down my face and I pass my reflection. It's hideous. Ugly and distorted in anger and pain. I run to my bedroom and bury my face in my pillows. This is me in all my beauty. That is, there is none. There is nothing beautiful about a girl who cries for the happiness of death.

I know this.


They show me this. They tell me this.


And all is true.


I dress in simple clothing. Clothing that I hope will make me invisible. My hope is always in vain when it comes to never being spotted though. I am like a sore protruding from the perfect and smooth skin of an actor. Every photographer will instantly spot me and every camera will shoot me from every angle. There is no escape.

I kick my sister awake and walk to the bus.

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