So What If I Cry

The tears fall thick and fast as usual, she wonders if she'll ever stop crying. The hurt will only stop if she gets away from here. But she can't. She can't even fight back. She's too tired even to say, 'So What If I Cry?'.


9. Lines And Curves

I rested my head aganst the pillow, unwilling to get up. The previous night had been so teenage, so petty. I could've almost sensed it in the air. The victim that I called a pillow, as I burrowed my head further into it, was like some symbolic object, cushioning my mental fall. Staring up at the sun-dazzled ceiling, something made me happy it was Sunday. I didn't go downstairs and opened my laptop, in fact I didn't move from the bed for quite a while, the covers almost becoming a part of my person, until I heard a loud grumbling noise. Groaning, I forced myself out of bed, my foot sliding along the smooth oak frame as I brought it down to meet the other. The carpet was rough beneath my feet as I trudged along it, massaging my forehead. Slowly, the energy returned to my body. I gripped the banister and descended carefully, immediately seizing a slice of toast from the side when I reached the kitchen.

"Eleanor! That was my toast!" Came Mum's irate voice from the door. She didn't seem too angry about it, just a little put off that she'd have to make more. Looking down at golden piece of toasted bread that was still warm in my hands, I licked my lips. I blushed slightly and guiltily finished off the slice and leaving the room. Moments later, I found myself in the living room, with the sofa, the chair, the TV, and the desktop PC and printer set. The sofa was a jumble sale of clothing, clothing, and more clothing. Strolling over to the printer, I fished out a wad of paper, and grabbed a long, thin pencil with 'Disney Land' plastered all over it. Returning to the confines of my room, closing the door gently, I leaned aagainst it, the sleepy side of me taking over for a moment, even though I had only gotten out of bed a few minutes ago.


Setting the paper and pencil down on my desk, I took a seat. My mind was as blank and as void-like as that sheet of paper, I had no idea what to draw-if, of course, that had been my intention when I got the urge to pick up a pencil and some paper. I squirmed, annoyed, in my seat. Then I simply pressed my pencil to the first sheet of paper and began drawing. The lines were entirely random, swirls and twists, curves and straight lines, squares and circles, snaking into rivers and valleys of land. Another world, it took me to.

What seemed like a short while later, the paper was covered in pencil lines. What they were-I wasn't really sure. I glanced up at the clock. I was shocked to find the hands were hovering just above the four o'clock positions. I had to grip the pencil tighter to avoid dropping my jaw. Time had passed that quickly? Disregarding the time, I continued going on and on, drawing delicate pencil lines until my hand ached and I had no paper left. I bit my lip, I didn't really want to go downstairs. Reluctantly, I went anyway.


The printer was empty, and so was the pack of paper, which was lying unnoticed by the printer. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted my red laptop glistening in the late afternoon sun. I sighed inwardly. Giving into tempted, I lifted the lid and turned it on. Within minutes I had booted it up and I was ready. I checked my comments on my favourite site again.

'Lissy101-Answer me, crybaby. That's what you are, a crybaby!'

There were many other comments beside that one, but my eyes seemed to have zoomed in, limiting my vision to those nine words of at the top of the page. I slammed the lid closed without a second thought while a lone, anguished tear drifted down my cheek.


(This is the one note I'm going to put in this story, except from at the end. So, at first this story was easy to write, but while I had a sort of writer's block, where I lost inspiration and my writing was entirely rubbish, it sort of went downhill and I had to force pathetic chapters out of my brain. But now I have my inspiration back, I realised two things. One, I should never publish anything when I have no inspiration and then edit it when I do so it's worth publishing. Two, I can't write well when there's no action or emotion. For example, in the 'waiting moments' inbetween events that I've tried, the writing has been bad. But while I'm writing about something happening, or someone feeling something, I can add in so much more detail.)

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