This is a draft for a possible story based on the theme of ‚escape.‘
I wear my hood over my head as I walk home from the bus stop. I pull the sleeves over my hands as I shiver from the biting cold. I protect myself from the wind, the rain and the stares of people around me. Maybe they don’t see me and how I feel, but I see them, and their quick judgemental up-and-down look they so often give. My eyes might seem blank and directionless, but inside the blood in my veins is rushing through my body creating a distracting throb in the rhythm of my pulse. The voices I hear are all so distant, I gave up on listening to them years ago, because I know, that none of them are for me.
I walk in my own daze, my own thoughts and my eyes on the ground. As if, I’m in a bubble, a cage of loneliness. The face that people have begged me to hide for as long as I can remember, is covered by my thin, brown hair. I’m bowing down, letting them step on me and letting their comments get to me, like they are feeding them to me with a spoon.
Once I would tell my mum everything, and all the feelings I couldn’t describe. She would wrap her arms around me, and pulled my head to her chest. Hearing her heart beat heavily made me feel like I was safe. But only for a moment, because of the vibrations of her voice telling me that it would all be okay. But it’s not. It is not all okay. And it never is, and it never will be.
I know it hurts her. I know her heart clenches when she sees the tears running down my pale cheeks. Tears she has no control over, tears she can do nothing about. Because I am not a child anymore. I don’t believe in the comfort of her kind but unknowing words. I know she feels as though she has failed. Failed to protect her child. I don’t want to give her that pain, but I have lost all power, all power outside the cage I am trapped in. As I grow older and the emotional pain gets worse, the cage gets smaller, and I can’t bear being in it.
There is no one to blame. No one to point at. No one would ever hurt someone this much. No one would be so inhumane that the person feels no excitement doing anything. Because that is how I feel. I feel as though I’m just watching what’s happening around me. What is happening to me. Because it gets to me, but I don’t show it. And I don’t seem weak, but I am. Everyone is.
The weakness that I can’t let go, makes it harder to escape. And that is what I want. I want to escape. Escape from the sleepless cold nights and the looks people give me.
So that’s what I did. I escaped.
And that’s my story.