Cherophobia- Good part

Cherophobia- Good part

A Story by CrimsonShinigami
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Which is better the first one or this one

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Cherophobia = Sorry �"C

                You might be wondering what cherophobia is, well, it’s a severe case for me. You see it’s a fear of happiness or gaiety. Chero is Greek for rejoice, happiness or gaiety. I never had this when I was born nor was it a recent development. It started when I was about 6 years old. My mother decided to remarry a man whom was kind in the beginning. My real father had died, from lung cancer, as soon as I was 3 years old. It was all fun and games for the first few months until my step-father was fired from work, that’s when everything went south.

                My mother started working overtime for the most of it. I didn't realize that my step-father was following me to school and the whole day. On Sunday, he kept asking me the same thing over and over again. “Hey, Cathy, smile for me, please.” I did what he had told me to, but it seemed I had just angered him. Okay, not to offend anyone, let’s call my step-father �"Bob, so I don’t have to call him well a him. Anyways, Bob started beating me like no tomorrow and screamed out. “Your smile is disgusting.” On Monday, I had a lot of bruises, so I covered them with a sweater. I was having a good time at school but when I got home Bob was waiting with some rope and tape. As Bob tied me up, he mumbled to himself, and when Bob was finished, he pulled a box cutter and slowly put it at my arm.

                “You smiled 4 times today, it’s time for punishment.” I didn't understand what he had meant at first. One slash onto another it wasn't too deep but it hurt a lot. He would finish before my mom came back home, of course I was too scared to tell her about anything. Tuesdays became punches, as Wednesdays were kicks, Thursdays are slow suffocation, Fridays were the only days that I didn't have to fear Bob because he went out drinking with his buddies and also my mother could come home early to spend time with me, And Saturdays, Bob would be the knife thrower as I stand in one spot unable to move. The Sundays weren't beatings no it was much worse; instead of beatings he would put his cigar ashes on my body. It wasn't random; no it was on my back. Being called ashtray and he says it while he smiles brought pain to me. Every single day was repeated just like that. The agony of him coming to school with me to observe my actions drew me closer to build a wall around myself.

                Nearly two months had past, Bob asked me to smile. I started to tremble, as I forced a smile on my face. The horror look on his face turned red. That very day was a Thursday: that meant it was suffocation slowly. He grabbed my neck and yelled that’s not a smile that’s not a smile. He kept repeating that over and over again as I was losing more and more air by the second. I closed my eyes as it all happened ready to accept my death. The door opened, my tear fell off my face, my mother looking horrified as what was happening to me. I fell to a deep slumber because Bob was still suffocating me.

                As I awoke, my mother was crying beside me in the hospital. I had so many untreated cuts and bruises that it would take a while before it can grow back. The only thing that would leave a scar is the cigar spots on my back. Many times, I close my eyes and I can see Bob waiting for me to “help him”. I wake up in cold sweat: I visited a psychiatrist and he prescribed me with medicine to subdue the symptoms. When I’m at school, people laugh and then I have a narrow line of breathing. I read in front of people and they smile which makes me sweat and tremble uncontrollably. My teachers know about my situation, but I get mistaken or taking drugs in broad daylight. I have no friends but it try to keep a conversation though it only lasts for about a minute and I rush out the room. I still take therapy every 2nd day and test my endurance but I do know that it’s a long road ahead of me.

                This is my fear and one time, I was changing for gym, my classmate told me that my scars on my back say “Sorry �"C”. I faintly remember him teaching me that names aren't important to remember the bad times only an initial is fine. “Cathy, you see when you remember names you often hear the same name more than once. The brain unconsciously thinks that it’s the culprit, that way your whole mind turns blank and starts to panic. So a single initial is fine, so that way the mind doesn't have to react to a pointless thing like a bad moment. Traumatized people often hear the things that they don’t want to hear, but I won’t tell you this because it leads off to another story.” Bob petted my head gently as he smiles that used to make me feel at ease. “Promise me, Cathy that you would forget about me or anything terrible that had happened.” The time I spent in happiness went off in a swift of air. Of course, I was too little to understand his words but I do now.

© 2014 CrimsonShinigami


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Added on October 23, 2014
Last Updated on October 23, 2014

Author

CrimsonShinigami
CrimsonShinigami

Edmonton, Canada



About
I like writing poems and stories but I never had the chance to show others they may not be as good as others but I tried my best. I enjoy reading books that have a good story plot. I hate quiet room.. more..

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