Wednesday Writing: This Victim

It's been a few months since I opened up a Word Document and began writing; my playlist playing in the background as I type. So, today, I sat down and wrote something I have been wanting to for a while. As you may know, I'm currently organising another Anti-Bullying event to take place, and I decided to write this piece to show what that it is not 'cool' or 'fun' to make someone feel worthless. Who knows what it can lead to?

This could be quite upsetting, as it deals with a tough-topic, and was in no way written to offend anybody. If it has done so, please don't hesitate to contact me, and it will be removed from my blog.

Header designed by Ruby from Feed Me Books Now
 

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Hands clasp around my waist, attempting to drag me away. I stay crouched on the ground, a single note covered in an untidy scrawl clutched between my fingers, showing that time was running out when it was written. 'Em' is written on the front. For me. My hands shake; the knuckles bare. My whole body becomes wracked with uncontrollable sobs, leaving me gasping for breath as the realisation begins to seep through my body, a poison moving into the veins. I retch. A crowd of people stand around me – none of them wanting to be the first to try and calm me down. They just watch on like I'm a caged-animal at a zoo, and I wonder if I look that feral.

Charlie's easel rests on the nearby wall for support, a canvas covered in a collection of colours; while others decorate the walls, this one will stay unfinished. There’s music. An orchestra continues its symphony, an eerie chorus of violins filling the room, a choir accompanying the musicians in the background. You could even say it was peaceful. An ironic setting for the events of today. The room, despite having spent almost every day of my teenage years curled up in the armchair reading, is unfamiliar. An unforgiving place that I want to escape. I wasn’t welcomed with the smell of a cake baking in the oven, or the warmth of her arms as she engulfed me as I crossed the threshold. Instead, I was greeted by silence. It forced me through the door that was left slightly ajar, carried me up the stairs when I hesitated and then let me fall; my body hitting the wooden flooring with a crash that promised to leave bruises covering my legs. The text, what I know now was the final one, was too late. I recall, as the wind whispers my name and the rain sends the gawping spectators in the streets into their own homes, that there were signs. The panic that was etched across her face every time the mask fell; in the moments where she would take out her phone and the conversation would end. The dark circles under her eyes where I knew sleep had never come, and the lines that were embedded into her complexion that were ordinary, it seemed. I decided not to pry. Exams, they were a few weeks away, the text books piled up in one corner of my own room reminded me of that. It's anxiety, I would tell myself, as sleep threatened to stay away for another night. Don't worry. I would say. She would tell you if there was something wrong. 
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The pleas not to tell; the promises; the pledges. They all left my vision glazed. I noticed, but also didn’t, the unfinished meals left on plates, the bones that were all too present, the clothing that fit only a few weeks ago. The scars, covering the length of her legs, covered up: hidden away. No longer there. On the floor, I clutch her hand, begging for someone, anyone to allow me to do something. TO DO ANYTHING. Sobbing into her unmoving chest, I silently cry out for help. For this victim; for my friend. 

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This piece of work belongs to Sophie Louise. It shouldn't be copied, or 'recycled' without permission.

Thank you for reading!