Victoria King
Cadet
okay i have no idea for a title of this, i hope to continue writing this and any suggestions on the name of it would be greatly appreciated! HOPE YA LIKE! thanks again for reading and be kind, REVIEW! 
Hello. I haven’t talked in years. So naturally the first word I have decided to choose randomly for my adventure back into the speaking world is typical. I regret it already. I can feel it burying itself deep in the hollow cave between my lungs and the very tip of my stomach, burning and festering causing me to double over, clutching my aching belly in the action, and cry. Of course my mother was so overjoyed that she immediately dropped her precious antique silver tray with the carved leaves, intricate loops spiraling about aimlessly searching for something to grasp onto, on the handles which I think she takes more pride in than she does in me and screamed a piercing shrieking yelp that most likely caused many of our neighbors to momentarily think of calling the police on us for disturbing the peace of the soothing hum of revving car engines and dog howls in our dingy alleyway we call home.
I wouldn’t have been at all surprised if she would have raced down the rose carpeted stairs(starting after the rough wood stairs to the attic) to hastily grab her digital camcorder and beg me to speak again just for the sake of having the memory on tape knowing full well it would be awhile until I speak again. She didn’t. She just stood there with her perfectly penciled and filled in lips(blood red) agape after she emitted that horrifying sound which caused me to cover my ears for fear of being terminally deaf. I forget exactly how long she stayed like that as her precious tray tumbled and spun around on the floor like a top. She left shortly afterward leaving her tray by the archway into the room (where it is still sitting, in perfect view) and with her mouth wide muttering under her breath and her long polished nails trembling.
To me, it was nothing, touching the fire to see if it was still scorching hot like I last remembered, testing the waters once again to remember why I detested it so much, and part of me, just to prove that I could still string together insignificant syllables to form a word or at the very least to manipulate my vocal chords to emit a meek sound, a moan or a grunt, just like everyone else in the world. Even when I threw away words to the wind whenever I felt, making up imaginary words that only held meaning to me, singing at the top of my lungs when my mother had to leave me home alone while she quickly did the grocery shopping when my father was at work, I could taste the bittersweet sting it left on my tongue. As various words rolled in and out of my mouth like a lollipop, I could feel the pungent aftertaste begin to take shape, ready to strike at any moment.
Other than the random spark of interest in speaking this morning, I hadn’t talked in almost eight years, just one year shy of half my life. My reasons for not interacting verbally are very simple: I don’t know. Actually to be honest, I do know but not specifically. There was never a defining moment or situation that sparked my desire to stop talking, no chorus of angels surrounded by a white light singing, just a habit that turned into to a ritual that turned into a normal life.
There were of course events that happened that hurried along this decision and some even suggest that it was the cause of that event which took my voice away from me just like Hans Christian Anderson took Ariel’s voice away from her. She wanted something she could not have and to try to get a glimpse of it, she had to suffer. But I am not suffering; I find solace and peace in muted words only filled with the satisfying sound of my thoughts.
Even though I wish that only having myself as company was the reason why I seek refuge in the attic in solitude, there is more. Most of the time, huddled up in a trembling ball I recall that day. Flashes of sudden pictures, being caught in the blinding light of photography, stunned and dazed, unsure of where to go next, afraid to stumble and fall down helpless. I try not to remember, I really do but there are things that even I can not overcome.
Everything is always fragmented, short clips spliced horribly together in black and white except the blood, like an old movie with the fragile dust of age and discoloration. Always stark red yet poetic, enthralling and gorgeous as it slinks from cut skin over metal down to the concrete sidewalk. Fluid and determined with a mind of its own snaking around the victim’s body and off the littered curb and onto the asphalt of the road.
Heavy footsteps leave blurred impressions in the slick grime of the city left on the edges of the streets as they carry their owner away from the graceful body sprawled out across the sidewalk. A rumpled newspaper bumps the lifeless body and is carried over it with the help of a slight wind that rattles my window as well. The blurry lights of red blue red blue break through the dark and accompany the distilled luminance of the street lamp, whose structure reminds me of something one would find in a musical or cliché movie. The slow draining of color and life from her face and the gentle stiffening of her fingers. Wide open eyes scared, sky blue and whiter than white, looking up at me, pleading for me to help. Fingernails painted a maroon, which ironically matched the blood, chipped in various places. My mother’s chilling touch against my arms trying to pull me away from the site. Tears clouding everything until my vision goes black.
I try, and boy do I try, to stop that scene from playing over and over in my mind. Nothing works; it just keeps coming, stronger and brighter each time hitting me with a force of a crisp fall wind, knocking me out. At first I refused to climb the creaky wooden steps up here but now I seek shelter here, living here, homesick for this place of isolation. I didn’t shed a tear or a startled gasp. The only sounds I can ever recall are not of a mangled cry for help from down below or the grunt of satisfaction of squeezing the life out of someone, just the sound of my long brittle unkempt nails slipping along the ridges of the attic shudders to the sides of my body.
so what did you think?!?! continue?! ideas for title?!
Hello. I haven’t talked in years. So naturally the first word I have decided to choose randomly for my adventure back into the speaking world is typical. I regret it already. I can feel it burying itself deep in the hollow cave between my lungs and the very tip of my stomach, burning and festering causing me to double over, clutching my aching belly in the action, and cry. Of course my mother was so overjoyed that she immediately dropped her precious antique silver tray with the carved leaves, intricate loops spiraling about aimlessly searching for something to grasp onto, on the handles which I think she takes more pride in than she does in me and screamed a piercing shrieking yelp that most likely caused many of our neighbors to momentarily think of calling the police on us for disturbing the peace of the soothing hum of revving car engines and dog howls in our dingy alleyway we call home.
I wouldn’t have been at all surprised if she would have raced down the rose carpeted stairs(starting after the rough wood stairs to the attic) to hastily grab her digital camcorder and beg me to speak again just for the sake of having the memory on tape knowing full well it would be awhile until I speak again. She didn’t. She just stood there with her perfectly penciled and filled in lips(blood red) agape after she emitted that horrifying sound which caused me to cover my ears for fear of being terminally deaf. I forget exactly how long she stayed like that as her precious tray tumbled and spun around on the floor like a top. She left shortly afterward leaving her tray by the archway into the room (where it is still sitting, in perfect view) and with her mouth wide muttering under her breath and her long polished nails trembling.
To me, it was nothing, touching the fire to see if it was still scorching hot like I last remembered, testing the waters once again to remember why I detested it so much, and part of me, just to prove that I could still string together insignificant syllables to form a word or at the very least to manipulate my vocal chords to emit a meek sound, a moan or a grunt, just like everyone else in the world. Even when I threw away words to the wind whenever I felt, making up imaginary words that only held meaning to me, singing at the top of my lungs when my mother had to leave me home alone while she quickly did the grocery shopping when my father was at work, I could taste the bittersweet sting it left on my tongue. As various words rolled in and out of my mouth like a lollipop, I could feel the pungent aftertaste begin to take shape, ready to strike at any moment.
Other than the random spark of interest in speaking this morning, I hadn’t talked in almost eight years, just one year shy of half my life. My reasons for not interacting verbally are very simple: I don’t know. Actually to be honest, I do know but not specifically. There was never a defining moment or situation that sparked my desire to stop talking, no chorus of angels surrounded by a white light singing, just a habit that turned into to a ritual that turned into a normal life.
There were of course events that happened that hurried along this decision and some even suggest that it was the cause of that event which took my voice away from me just like Hans Christian Anderson took Ariel’s voice away from her. She wanted something she could not have and to try to get a glimpse of it, she had to suffer. But I am not suffering; I find solace and peace in muted words only filled with the satisfying sound of my thoughts.
Even though I wish that only having myself as company was the reason why I seek refuge in the attic in solitude, there is more. Most of the time, huddled up in a trembling ball I recall that day. Flashes of sudden pictures, being caught in the blinding light of photography, stunned and dazed, unsure of where to go next, afraid to stumble and fall down helpless. I try not to remember, I really do but there are things that even I can not overcome.
Everything is always fragmented, short clips spliced horribly together in black and white except the blood, like an old movie with the fragile dust of age and discoloration. Always stark red yet poetic, enthralling and gorgeous as it slinks from cut skin over metal down to the concrete sidewalk. Fluid and determined with a mind of its own snaking around the victim’s body and off the littered curb and onto the asphalt of the road.
Heavy footsteps leave blurred impressions in the slick grime of the city left on the edges of the streets as they carry their owner away from the graceful body sprawled out across the sidewalk. A rumpled newspaper bumps the lifeless body and is carried over it with the help of a slight wind that rattles my window as well. The blurry lights of red blue red blue break through the dark and accompany the distilled luminance of the street lamp, whose structure reminds me of something one would find in a musical or cliché movie. The slow draining of color and life from her face and the gentle stiffening of her fingers. Wide open eyes scared, sky blue and whiter than white, looking up at me, pleading for me to help. Fingernails painted a maroon, which ironically matched the blood, chipped in various places. My mother’s chilling touch against my arms trying to pull me away from the site. Tears clouding everything until my vision goes black.
I try, and boy do I try, to stop that scene from playing over and over in my mind. Nothing works; it just keeps coming, stronger and brighter each time hitting me with a force of a crisp fall wind, knocking me out. At first I refused to climb the creaky wooden steps up here but now I seek shelter here, living here, homesick for this place of isolation. I didn’t shed a tear or a startled gasp. The only sounds I can ever recall are not of a mangled cry for help from down below or the grunt of satisfaction of squeezing the life out of someone, just the sound of my long brittle unkempt nails slipping along the ridges of the attic shudders to the sides of my body.
so what did you think?!?! continue?!
ideas for title?!