Isabella's impulse

A short story on child abuse. This would come to be the first story I were to write.

Isabella sits in the corner of her depressing damp and dark room. She hasn’t dared to move as the flickering light of the TV briefly illuminates her devitalized face. The heinous events of the night flash before her eyes as she stays curled up in her mildew ridden domicile. The thoughts intrude her head like a SWAT team that is entrenching a home through it’s weak doors.
The pain is all too vivid and intense. For her, it injured much deeper than the apparent scars and bruises which riddle her worn body.
‘Why doesn’t anyone love me?’, she enquired ‘ Oh Dear Lord, save me. Save me from their wrath!’
Throughout her 12 years of life she suffered at the hands of abusers. People who she expected would care for her, possibly even love her. This all changed though upon being enrolled in the third grade. In the first few days of her schooling career, little Isabella was a misfit. Why? The pestering started off on almost irrelevant subjects, such as the fact that she was taller than most girls or was from a Spanish descent. Albeit, in fourth grade, the jiving became more bothersome and frequent. She was pushed around by her classmates, prejudiced against because of her ethnicity, and scorned upon by teachers. Fortunately for Isabella, she was safe from such bullies in her own home, but you have to take into account that this was before her parents got into drugs.
The events of that day were so horrific they were permanently etched into her mind. Before this incident, her parents were struggling binge drinkers. They woke up each day with the sole purpose to drink, her parents squandered their meager earning on all the alchohol which was available to them. If this was not enough, the abuse started off verbally. They, the ones who were supposed to love her, threw derogatory statements at her like darts that, instead of hitting a board, would pierce her mentality. She remembers the tears shed, her heart being broken , and mostly, her soul becoming a shattered heap. These tiny fragments became irreparable, thrown everywhere in millions of pieces, pieces which slowly suffered and oozed out blood.
 Isabella pitied herself for thinking those times were hard, little did she know of what heroin and meth could do to her family. The two drugs were cunning thieves, they fed off of the weak to make others suffer.
 The addiction swept her by surprise, while the springs of her bed cut into her sides at night, she could hear her parents disputes; just simply astonished by how much raw hatred there was. No love, only hate. Now trapped in her own home,tears streamed down her dirty face while recalling such horrors.
 This anger began to slowly encompass her being. It’s presence gave her power, such at the way her parents had totalitarian authority over her. While reminiscing over her life, she remembered her father’s large, calloused hand smacking her across the face. He was enraged by the loss of money. It was customary for her mother to pull Isabella’s thick, brown wavy hair out of the nerve racking impulses of withdraw.
“I’m scared.” Isabella timidly whispers to herself. Her voice is meek and very soft like the sound of wind caressing the landscape.
“Why me?” she asks, saying the words slightly louder than before.
 “Shut Up!” her father bellows in his bass like voice. His words tear through the walls of the house and into the fragile state of his daughter.
Suddenly though, the noise hushed for a brief moment of placidity enveloped the house. For once in years, there was a feeling of oneness, of composure, of serenity.
 Sadly though, this time was interrupted by the shattering of a beer bottle and two heavy thumps on the ground. Then, all was silent again. Isabella’s senses became more acute, such unusual events were taking place. What should she do?
‘Did mom and dad overdose?’ her consciousness questioned. ‘Is it safe to go check?’
‘No! What if they will hit you?’ her anxiety retaliated. For some reason though, these negative thoughts didn’t have an effect on her unsettled mind.
Then, she suddenly stood up. The muscles in her legs buckled when they were forced to support her wait. She teetered back and forth while walking towards the light seeping underneath the door. It felt almost instinctual for her to do so, the fact that she suppressed the urge to do this action for so long was probably the cause. The emotions were finally welling up and spilling the desires which were trapped for so long.
 Isabella began to walk faster. Her mind contradicted her authority to do so, but of course, she no longer cared. It was as if some compulsion was forcing her body to do so, she felt so robotic, like she was preprogrammed to do these events.
 To her though, the sudden silence of the night was desirably appealing. Then, in a single swift motion it all happened. She saw her battered hand reach towards the tarnished brass knob. Upon contact with it, she felt that the knob was gelid and damp. She did not care. Her thumb with it’s long nail extended first. Then, the rest of her flushed and dirty fingers lurched forward.
In the next interval of time that followed, one in which seconds took an infinitesimal amount of length and muscle motion was so fluent it was second nature, Isabella was able to slowly open up the door. The hinges squeaked as if they were singing laments of the past, the feeble door with it’s flaking and faded red paint becoming deliberately sucked into her field of energy, and, most of all, the dim light flooding the blank, molding, disconsolate room. A room which trapped her for so long. Now, the lights percussed her in the face with it’s fists of dismay. The stench of alcohol and cigarettes filled her nostrils. The tactile sensation of the unfinished wood floor on her numb feet gave a sense of realism to the events.
 After soaking up the feeling of a place which seemed so distant until now, she began to walk towards the slatternly kitchen. A kitchen in which colorless and bleak tan cabinets resided, oppressing checkered tiles subsist,and a cheap overused stove glares at her with it’s fiery eyes. A stove may not mean a lot for most people, but to her it was a tool of the devil. How many times had she seen her parents cook meth or heroin over it. Their faces were etched with a lustful hunger for such a toxic substance.
 Unfortunately, this would be a desire which would never be fulfilled, for the bottomless abyss of an addict’s heart can never be completely filled regardless of how much drugs and alcohol they put in.
 Now, her parents were nothing more than lifeless lumps lying on the ground. They were both in a fetal position, their bodies interlocking like the Yin-Yang sign. But there was no peace here. Her mom’s hair covered it’s owner’s pasty and cleft face. To everyone, it was very obvious her mom had a variety of issues. She obsessively picked at her skin for a reason which no one knew. Maybe to please the god of meth? Her teeth were yellow and sharpened to the point of daggers.
 Isabella’s dad was no different. Alcohol made him look twice his age. He had creases in his square Spanish face. These creases permanently showed the fiery emotions of his soul.
Now, they weren’t in the 3 dimensions of life anymore. They departed from this world of sense into another universe.
They were gone.
Forever.
For Isabella though, this didn’t matter. She stood like a tower above their lifeless bodies, triumphant. She was a bird that had been freed from it’s wire prison. She would fly where she wanted. At the sanctioning of that thought, she felt a sense of independence sweep over her. Though the scars on her body would always be a constant reminder of the past, she looked upon the world with an impassive expression. She wouldn’t let things take her down.
 Now, in another impulsive state, she walked towards the front door. Then, in one swift motion, she reached towards the tarnished brass knob. Isabella twisted the knob, opened the door, and felt the wind of the dark winter night brush past her cheeks. She began walking into a new world, yet another world which seemed so distant until now. As she walked, she had no idea where she was going. Although, for Isabella, this didn’t matter as long as she was gone from there.

Author's Note

Please tell me what you think! I'd like some criticism but keep in mind, this is my first!

Reviews

[Phillitup]

This was a good story, however, remember that sometimes in writing less can be more. I'm talking about vocabulary. Some readers will hang on to every word. Others will lose themselves in trying to figure it out. Other then that... great job! For your first it was truly remarkable. It's like me with poems...wondering how to figure it out. The fact that you want help means a lot. Your crave to get better. As long as you keep doing so, you will become unstoppable. Your basis was fabulous and you honestly had a feel for your characters while you were writing. I congratulate you.

[Crimson Bayonet]

This is a great story. Awesome job! :D