500 Words

,,You’re disaster,” something once says. ,,Something wrong. Aren’t you?”
And she has no idea how to answer that, is only rendered speechless as she slowly steps around, trail leaving behind something alike to naught.
,,Why won’t you answer?”, it pushes and she steps back, eyes blank and mouth empty. She’s forgotten how to form words.
Then a laugh. An utterly despicable thing that makes her gut curl and chest tightens. She gasps.
,,But how could I expect that of you. You are, after all-“
,,So wrong.”


21. Day Twenty

,,You took so much from me,” she finally admit one day, fingers barely touching the words carved into the memorial stone in front of her. She doesn’t cry; she believes she’d done too much of that lately, and it’s giving her too much of a headache to bother.
,,And somehow managed to give me all of this,” her hand lets go, grabbing ahold of her jacket right outside her chest.
,,You shaped me. All of it. The soft and hard edges. I want to nod at mother, whenever she tells me that there was more to my childhood than your yells, and there was. But you shaped me in the end. You made into what I am today; someone capable of something truly beautiful…”
Or something utterly destructible.
,,I’m not doing so good at the time, father,” she admits yet again, fingers shaking a bit as she curls them in toward herself.
,,And I can’t figure out why,” she whispers, silent words of frustration spilling over her chapped lips.
,,And I feel like I’m cheating everyone. Because there’s nothing wrong. There’s no one doing me wrong. No one but…”,
Me, you, who?
,,My stories are beings that keeps going back. My words…”, she worries her bottom lip, skin twitching. She grabs her wrist, head bowing forward as her shoulders shake with bitten back tears.
,,My words are disasters, father. They aren’t right. They are true, oh how painfully true they are, but how wrong they are.”
She looks up, their face flashing through her mind. A truly graceful thing, sharp, beautiful edges and her eyes close.
,,And I’m not even sure I can put the blame on you anymore.”


It looks upon her, an obvious withhold disappointment in her face. And she’s tired.
Tired of being exhausted.
Tired of being weak.
Tired of being a victim.
,,So I guess we’ll have to start over then,” it says, but there’s no blame to spot on the words. Yet she feels them, the coming of impatience and lack of trust.
And she gets mad.
,,Why?”, she says, barely able to reign in her exasperation.
It frowns upon her, before smiling endearingly.
,,Because I need you to get better, dear – we can’t have you stumbling around and feeling-“
And it’s the small things with this one.
,,I don’t stumble,” she interrupts, and it bites it’s lip.
,,I didn’t mean that-“
,,No, you did. I’m sorry Sir, but I’m not doing this anymore,” she arises, hand reaching out for her bag.
,,Miss, please behave-“
,,Please behave yourself, Sir. I’m sorry, but we’re not a right fit. You have a strange way of believing you can help people – a way I do not want to be a part of anymore. You can see this as our last meeting,” she tries not to think too much about her indifferent move at reaching for her bag, since she has to let go again to shrug on her jacket.
,,Miss please, you need help-“
,,Yes I do. But not from you. Sorry for wasting your time, Sir – we probably never should’ve met.


Join MovellasFind out what all the buzz is about. Join now to start sharing your creativity and passion
Loading ...