Story Time

Afternoon Kindle-ites. Yes, I plan on posting a review tonight, but I just finished writing this little ditty and thought.. “What the hell. Post them both.” So… here it is, another Misty original. (Let the bashing begin.)



20110414-030412.jpgStreams Of Words

     The color was always the same, crimson red, but that was not what mattered. The feeling that the little splash of red produced was what mattered. Relief. Like a bottle of soda that has been sitting in the sun for too long and is aching to be opened before it explodes. She didn’t care that she was making a mess; streaking her clothes and the already dirty tile floor with blood, those were just details; issues that could be dealt with when the time came, but for now…the only task at hand was to release the words that were trapped inside of her veins… pumping steady strings of negativity and pain towards her brain.

     “You are worthless! Why do I even bother.”

     When she was little her mother had very diligently taught her that “sticks and stones could break her bones, but words could never hurt her.” Unfortunately that wasn’t how life worked. In reality words were much more damaging than a damn bruise would ever be. Words had a way of weaving their way inside of you, festering until you could actually smell the stink of them radiating off of your skin. A broken arm or a bruised jaw? Surfaces grazes…things that could be easily tended to by a doctor.

     The first time she panicked she had been 14, a child. Susanna Beecham, of the “we-have-more-money-than-God” Beecham’s, decided to point out just how pathetic she actually was.

     “You are ugly… did you know that? I mean… not average ugly, that could be tolerated, YOU are ogre worthy, and…” because obviously that wasn’t enough, “You smell like my dog pissed on you. Do us a favor and quit taking showers in your toilet.”

     Yep, that was all it took. The next thing she knew she was huddled in the AV closet running a broken slide reel back and forth across her forearm. She had absolutely zero idea what she was doing, all she knew was that it felt better. At first, the pain gave her something else to focus on, but then it morphed into something else entirely. The answer.

     For years she had been forced to hold all of her emotional baggage inside, but this… this habit she instinctively knew was sick and wrong, allowed her to let go of it. She could actually see the words as they flowed out of her, each drip adding something new to the pile of misery that was puddling on the floor.

     “Loser”… Drip.
     “Waste”… Drip.
     “Hideous”… Drip.

     The beauty of it all was that no one seemed to notice. Not that they seemed to notice her anyways, but one long sleeved shirt and poof, the evidence was gone.

     “Um… hello?”

     Joey jumped.

     When had someone else come in the room? God… she had always been so careful, letting her guard down was a no-no. She looked around desperately for the lime green hoodie she had drug into the corner with her.

     “Joey… Are you in here?”

     Maybe if she was really quiet he would just go away. She knew exactly who it was. That scrawny audio visual kid… Paul.. Saul… whatever, his name was not the issue. This was a disaster. Under no circumstance would her current position look normal. She was holding a razor blade for fuck sake, that alone would be a cause for concern, not adding in the stark red blotches of human life that surrounded her like mine fields.

     She heard her name called one more time before she saw his face, freckle covered and pale from lack of sun, peek around the corner.


     He looked down.

     Immediately she rose, hoping that the movement would distract him from the scene he was witnessing, but the surprise, and then disgust, that registered in his eyes was unmistakable.

     “What are you doing?” he asked, his mouth agape, clearly shocked from what he was seeing.
     “Nothing… go away.”
     “What do you mean nothing… it looks like a damn massacre in here.” He looked down, moving his foot slightly to the left to avoid getting blood on the bottom of his shoe.
     “I… I was just looking for something, shit… quit staring at me.” She grabbed her bag, that had somehow mysteriously made it’s way to the middle of the room, and started to walk off. All she needed was time. If she could get away, clean herself up and then avoid Paul/Saul for a few days this whole “thing” would just disappear. Lose shape and then drift off into a string of never-ending tomorrows.

     “Wait, where are you going?” he asked, taking a timid stepping closer to her, and then gently retrieving her bag from her shoulder, only to immediately turn around and chunk it a good 10 feet from where they were currently standing. “You are hurt, let me help you.”
     “I’m fine,” she said, though her mind was setting off sirens even a deaf person couldn’t help but hear.
     “You are very clearly, not fine, sit down.”

     Like one of those saps in the movies her mother loved to watch so much, he moved beside her and pulled out one of the rooms excruciatingly uncomfortable plastic chairs. Sensing that a battle would be eminent if she refused she did as she was told. Reluctant, but attentive to the directions she was being supplied.

     “Ok, I’m sitting. Now what.”

     The boy she vaguely knew only stared.

     “No.. seriously…what are you going to do… fix me?” Her words, though delivered with a heavy helping of sarcasm, were laced with the truth. The only truth to have passed her lips for years, on purpose or by pure accident she was unclear.

     For a second she saw recognition flash across his face, and then it was gone; replaced by a sadness that seemed to make the air in the room become thick and stale.

     “Yes” he said, reaching a hand across the table to push a piece of her matted black hair behind her ear.

     Joey’s head shot up, her eyes locking on the figure in front of her, and for the first time seeing the tiny lines of a boy who had seen too much.

     “I’m going to help you clean up your words, and then… I’m going to teach you some new ones.”

About Misty

Your friendly neighborhood narcissist. I'm sarcastic, cynical and a bit cranky. I own a soap box so big that sometimes I have difficulty stepping down off of it, and I'm about 94% certain I have multiple personalities. I don't sleep enough, and I read more than any person should ever consider normal. I have anger management issues, especially when I'm stuck in traffic and I have an unhealthy obsession with my Kindle. I am a vampire lovin', zombie obsessed, book-in-hand, iPod freak. You either love me or hate me. You be the judge.

6 thoughts on “Story Time

  1. You NEVER fail to captivate me with your stories!

    Let me know when you put them out on Kindle I want to be one of the first to buy my copy!

    (Let the bashing begin.) WHATEVER!


  2. The other day I was minding my own business when someone came up to me and began speaking to me in a dominating and condescending tone of voice. Within a couple minutes, I observed my overall mood and attitude shift from happy and carefree to having a sense of worthlessness.
    What a prick this guy was! And he continued to lay it on. After some time I realized that he was having a very bad day and wished to find some “little guy” to discharge all of his negative energy on. I bet it felt really good for him.
    Well I gave it all back to him, that’s what I did! I didn’t even have to open my mouth or do anything outside of concentrating on that negative energy while slowly exhaling and breathing it all back in his direction. I watched it stick to his flesh. Acid burned away and returned to where it originated from. After about a minute, I was surprised to see his tone of voice become softer, almost weak and lifeless. And a couple days later I can see that he’s still drowning in his own acid. He appears to be on the verge of a mental breakdown. Better him than me! I hope the crap he tried to stick to me continues to burn, fester and irritate him!
    Many people have done this, I’m sure. But for a delicate, teenage girl who is experiencing many challenges; a different solution is followed—one that is sad and self-destructive. At age 14, Joey received some not-so-nice words from one of the snobby girls in the neighborhood. Mother always taught her that sticks and stones break bones, not words. But Joey found that words had a way of becoming trapped in her veins. What could she do?
    In Misty’s new short story, Joey struggles to cope with pain brought on by hurtful words. Towards the end of the introductory paragraph, it is immediately obvious as to what Joey is doing. It just sickens me! Misty continues to paint this scene with more disturbing images. At some point, I felt for the girl and speculated that perhaps she was confusing self-inflicted physical weakness with a sense of relief. I don’t know how Misty pulled that off, but it was a quite a trick.
    It’s the end of the story that made me pause for a moment and go back to the beginning. What was meant by the ending statement? Then it all came clear to me!
    I give this story 5 stars! I deals with controversial subject matter, but the reader should be exposed to this reality in one way or another. I’m actually beginning to develop an appreciation for these depressing stories of teenage girls, probably because I have a daughter on the verge of becoming a teenager. “Will my baby have to deal with this crap?” But what I’ll say about Misty’s style is that she closes her pieces with a note of something positive. I like that!

    Tom Raimbault
    Chicago, Illinois

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