Previous Challenge Entry (Level 3 - Advanced)
Topic: Bitter and Sweet (05/28/09)
TITLE: In The Corner Of My Bedroom
By Sara Harricharan
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I couldn’t make my hands stop moving. They kept on writing and smoothing. The pages were filling up.
None of it was good. The bitterness returned.
What kind of person am I? What kind of person writes these things about her own mother? I don’t understand anymore, as purple gel pen scribbles filled the page. It was just a bar of Twix, she didn’t have to embarrass me!
The kind of things I only dare to write in here, drain the poison from my mind, intended for my eyes only. Someday I will burn this diary, before someone reads it and labels me insane.
Maybe I am. I don’t know.
The nonsense scribbling exhausted itself. I changed pens to the happy orange color to lift my spirits. My eyes ached again, but the darkness of the room helps. I’m tired. But it will take a while to regain any energy at all. Energy. A sickly, sweet feeling. Like exercise. Exercising hurts.
I don’t need them anymore.
They don’t seem to make muchs difference.
Dear Daddy, how did I end up with my mother? Doesn’t she understand the weight of her words on me? Doesn’t she know how much of my confidence rides on the replies to the questions I ask her? I don’t ask stupid questions. I’m not like the other girls, getting things colored, pierced and tattooed, while running off with some bonehead. I even try to get good grades like a good girl. But nothing I do is ever right. My face is square instead of round and that’s bad. I stay up too late and play non-existent games on my crashed computer. I’m too fat and my clothes look awful. I’m broke and shouldn’t con people into buying things for me. I’m not all that, Daddy. I’m not. Mothers are supposed to be sweet and good. Good to you.
Bitter tears splotched on the creamy page. I smeared them away with the edge of my nightgown. I didn’t dare cry. No one could hear me now.
I haven’t played games in months. You know what’s wrong with my computer. I sure don’t. It’s broken though. A blue screen of death. I can’t help the shape of my face and I don’t think anything’s wrong with it. Esven if there was, shouldn’t I make the best of it? You don’t think I’m ugly, Fa, I know that. But it hurts still. I don’t con people into buying me things either. I can’t help being the only girl. They shower me with the girly things I’d never have the guts to try anyway.
The pen lingers on the page, but this private conversation is suspended. I do not know if I can chance to write my heart to Him. For all of my sixteen years, I am afraid. Afraid to be real with Him.
Daddy…Father…I am fat. I know I am. Size 3 isn’t exactly flattering, but at least it’s not a size 5! I’m trying to eat well. I’m not skipping meals or throwing up or anything. I don’t have an eating disorder. I’m not trying to insult you either it’s just that…if I’d lose a few pounds and my stomach didn’t stick out so much, Mom would quit picking on me. She wouldn’t call me fat and she wouldn’t complain about my clothes, which really aren’t that tight. People also wouldn’t ask me if I was pregnant just because a tunic top doesn’t fit my shape like everyone else’s. I’m unique aren’t I? There’s nothing wrong with me…is there?
I cannot bear to write anymore. It is getting too personal. Too much to handle.
Within the patchwork walls I’ve built, I am safe enough for now.
The golden wrapper glittered from the faint glow of the lava lamp. I closed the diary and tucked it in my spare purse, hanging inside my winter coat. It is safely hidden. Bending beside the bed, I retrieved the candy bar and tore open the wrapper.
First bite is sweet. Second is bliss.
Then the crying begins.
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