United States

A teenager who enjoys videogames, Netflix, blogging, and reading, sometimes all at once. She also enjoys writing light and creative pieces, and isn't sure why she's writing this in the third person.

Message to Readers

This is another draft of my piece. I would love any feedback or suggestions, don't hold back!


December 13, 2015

PROMPT: Flawed Memory


GROUP: True Stories

Running. Running.

What I remember most from that day was running. Running down the hill towards my front door. Looking down at the grass between my toes, the tickle of a perfect summer day. Feet poudning with my heartbeat. Warm wind whooshing through my sun-bleached hair--and then something odd...a sound. I hear it before I feel it. A gasp, a strange whoomp! that stops me dead in my tracks. A sudden realization evident on my terror filled eyes. The sickly sweet jawbreaker that had been held in my chipmunk cheeks was now lodged in the back of my throat. I grab my neck and feel the strange lump, and I think of my dad's Adam's apple. Wrong. Something is wrong.

More running. Running to the door for salvation. Running to the door, my safety. Running to the door, freedom from the imminent death lodged between my throat. I reach the door, then a blow to the stomach. The door is locked. I can still feel my tiny fist pounding on the red slab of wood standing between me and my family, trying to shriek but unable to cry for help. Lips tingling, lungs burning. The edges of my vision fading, and a strange disorientation I had never experienced before. I remember my finger sore from pressing the doorbell the cheery tune on repeat. The familiar Ding dong! Ding dong! Ding dong! Ding dong! etched into my memory. "HELP ME! LET ME IN!" I cried, but nothing escaped except for a whispered gasp. 

The world is flipped upside down. My father's immense hands, pounding my back. Legs flailing, tears streaming, and another whoomp! A pop and the blue ball bounces down the front steps, and rolls to a stop. I gasp, gasp, gasp. Filling my lungs, vision returning. A couch under my back, parents looking over, and sobbing. Sobbing.

Something inside of me broke that day. I was only about five or six, and had experienced a strange new feeling -- trauma. I had felt feelings before, but they were trivial, minimal. This experience was a whole new level, a depth my brain was unable to understand. Sometimes I can still feel the literal lump in my throat, feel my fist pounding on the door, and sometimes I can still feel my feet pounding, the running.


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