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you know that ancient egyptian embalming technique where they pull out the brain through the nose? that’s what i do with writing. if i were you, i wouldn’t lick my pencils.

Message from Writer

'the world is changed because you are made of ivory and gold. the curves of your lips rewrite history.'

16 | english | she/her | enfp | ravenclaw | stark | big nerd

The Best Power Ranger is the Pink One

February 28, 2019


“What happened.” 

It wasn’t a question, it was a direct command to tell him. The voice was rough, as if gravel had been poured down his throat. It crunched and clicked as he punched me in the ribs once again, me doubling over as the acute pain resonated through my torso. 

“I-I’m not... I’m not telling you.” 

“That’s not what I like to hear.” 

Another punch, this time to the side of the face. Why do boxers do this for fun? Why did fight club say this was liberating? As far as I’m away, being beaten to a pulp is horrific. 

Blood was streaming down my face, hot and sticky like treacle. I could feel the bruises blossoming on my stomach; feel the broken ribs screaming for assistance. 

Yet, in my head, it was all pink. 

Pink: the colour of her walls, the gaudy nightmare of the fluorescent coating like a lollipop heralding the way to childhood content. Pink: the colour of her clothes, especially her favourite tutu which she insisted on wearing throughout the entire year, whether or not it was rain or shine. Pink: the childhood glow upon her cheeks like a dusting of sunset upon her face, accompanied by the decidedly pink giggles that danced from her pink lips if one was able to conjure them. 

“Where is she?” 

A kick to the chest. How mature. 

I hadn’t always intended on being a child kidnapper, and that title isn’t one I’d fully support. 

Being the bodyguard to the child of the world’s richest man sounds like a cool job, but in actual fact it’s just a front row seat to the endless corruption that goes on behind closed doors. 

That man didn’t love his daughter. If asked, he wouldn’t even know her favourite colour was pink, or that she loved the Power Rangers, or that she wanted to be a cowgirl like Jessie from Toy Story when she grew up. 

I had to move her, I had to. 

“What happened? Where is she?” 

Another kick, another punch. The pain exploded in every fibre of my being. I was unable to speak now. It felt like I was drowning in ink as I sunk below the waves of fatigue, the last thing on my mind that pink smile, that pink grace, that pink future.
this is shite I’m so sorry my ability to write has died recently 


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  • February 28, 2019 - 12:07pm (Now Viewing)

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