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I am a 16 year old writer seeking opportunities to show off my skills and provide entertainment through the form of words to people all over the globe. One day, I hope to publish my book and aspire, though the chance is small, to be like JK Rowling.

Message to Readers

Any feedback would be really appreciated! Feed me feedback! :)


November 9, 2015

PROMPT: Flawed Memory


GROUP: True Stories

Sunny. It had started off such a bright, hopeful day - a day filled with numerous oppotunites and brimming excitment for going to school. My young self - the one who had walked such different footsteps to the self I am today - had fumbled childishly about her repetitive morning routine. Eating breakfast, trying to get her hair into some order and then getting dressed. It was the same three things each morning in a varying order. The little girl with the lopsided ponytails and bright eyes hadn't questioned how the day would end, hadn't even noticed the sense of unease. Through the fragments of my mirror, sometimes I can see her.

From what I can see through the blockades of my mind, school that day had been fine. Nothing to suggest the little girl's world was about to be torn from the wall like old horrid unwanted wallpaper - ripped from the very foundations it had rested peacefully on. The only words that little girl remembered from that day still stick in my mind today, even if I have long moved on from ever meeting that girl again. The words, "We're sorry," spoken over and over again. Each passing apology meaning less and less until the little girl couldn't take it anymore. Her family had been shredded, torn over and over again, her brain forcing the mountainous memory into a tiny padlocked box. Quick to throw away the key, not anticipating that it would silently escape the box and eat away at her happiness as she grew. Little as she was, she was forced just like the memory to grow up. A painful kick in the back; the sharp feeling of a hot knife that awakened her to the fact that the world wasn't like the pretty pictures of her family she'd drawn. Lost. Lost between the planes of being a child, dreaming of fairy tales, and between the planes of being older, knowing how the real world was. Lost.

It's very faded. Sometimes, I look back on how everything was before I decided dreaming of a perfect world was for children and apologise to the little girl. I apologise for deserting her but try to explain that it could never go back to the way it was. For the girl I am now knows what it is like out there in the cruel grasps of the real world. I know that no matter how much I miss being oblivious, it wouldn't have lasted forever. I may be singular and lonely, among the kids who still haven't realised, but I know what it's like now. I know what to expect. 


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