Frozen Mind

The classroom is cold, but she keeps talking. I wrap the faded cardigan around me and pressed my chin against my chest. Her voice drifts into thin air and I turn my attention to the girl on my right. She is fidgeting with a piece of paper under her desk. She rolls and unrolls it, and her little game grabs my attention.

I hear the sharp “rap!” on my desk. I jump, the class laughs. She looks down on me above her glasses. Her stern eyes and the deep scowl penetrates through me until she looks blurry and rather silly. 

I sit up and loosen the cardigan, trying my best to look sorry, but she sends me to the office anyway. I know the principal will sigh and drop any document he was reading to frown and chastise me.

I am not a trouble maker; I just have a hard time paying attention. My teacher’s voice reminds me of fingernails scraping a chalkboard. Her clothes are always too bright and her eyes look like small beads in the thick framed glasses. 

The whole class laughs when she gets up, because her flowy bohemian vibe shirt is always  stuck between her buttocks.

She knows, she must have felt it, but I believe it has been years that she has been hearing the mocking chuckles and the daring screams that escape the lips of rowdy boys, whose parents did not care if they stayed out until past midnight.

 “They don’t go to learn Marilyn” My mother always say, and I would nod my head in solemn agreement, while she poured the delicious, creamy soup in my bowl and kiss my sweaty forehead.

I pass the principal’s office this time and walk straight to the girls restroom. I pull the alcohol from my bag, the dark liquid swish, threatening to spill its content and expose me. I press it against my cold lips and chug almost the whole bottle. I am no longer cold; the liquid swim through me and blanket my freezing insides, and soothe my whole body. 

I pull my hair  in a ponytail and stare at the slight upturn of my lips, the deep scar on my forehead. A tell tale of my summer last year.

Everyone must have heard, but the voice was too loud, the scream was too piercing and the crying was too much. I felt when his fingers dug into my skin, the desperate way his hand clung to my wrist. I felt the shovel escape my fingers and the impact rushed through me like the wind in a storm. I heard the ruptured breathing and her high pitched voice run through the dark and settled in my brain.

S

he is fine now, but I am still suffering. I can barely speak or even look at her. I sweat every time she comes near or whenever she touches me. She tells me thank you, but I am still afraid what I might do to myself if she reminds me of my past any longer.

By this time, I am drowsy. 

I slide to the floor and press my head against the cool wall tiles. My palms are sweating and my heart racing. The door opens, the creak fills my ear and I want to retch. The face is blurry, the glass bottle slides from my hand, to the floor. The contents spill, the brown liquid race along the floor and settles under the sinks.

The hand touches me. The fingers press against my temple to support my head, that I could feel dropping to the side. The pink blouse she is wearing is  so loud that it is making me ill. I forcefully pushed the hand away and struggle to stand, but the hand pushes me down. 

I hear the voice, but it sounds afar off and I can feel my strength slowly leaving. I knew she would call somebody and they would send me to the perky guidance counsellor. She did exactly that.

I couldn't run away to the old bridge and inhale the river air, because I have no strength. They would call my mother. Her hands would shake as she holds on to the straps of her brown bag and she would turn her head away as if to avoid seeing what a mess I was. 

I hear the piercing creak again. The figure is blurry, but the blue overalls are bright and I know it is the janitor.

The heavy hands pick me up and my body slumps over his hands. I can hear his laboured breathing. I  see the faces, blurry and joined together at the doors as he walks with me through the hallway. Some laugh while others seem afraid and pitiful. 

I feel the soft cushion of the sofa underneath my body and sigh. My hair and clothes are sticking to my skin. I heard voices and I see faces, but I didn't see the brown handbag or the platform shoes.

When I woke up, I saw the usual perky face. The plaid shirt rolled up at his elbows. His face s handsome, but much too alive for my liking. His gaze penetrates and  surely I am a mess. I am in different clothes, so I knew I pissed myself. The brown handbag was on the chair opposite to me. The straps are pinched and I managed a smile.

“What happened” His voice is beautiful like a lullaby.

I  see the sirens and the neighbours in the pyjamas. I feel the heavy hands on my shoulders and hear the screaming.

“I killed my father”

I  see the blood pouring from his face, his mouth open and was stopped during a scream.

“Why” he doesn't look surprised, he has been briefed

“He was hitting my mother” I press the insides of the palms against my forehead; the sweat is threatening to rush down my face again. 

I see the shovel leaned up against the house, Smeared in deep red. I feel his grip even now. The regret washes over me like a cold shower, freezing my mind. I still hear her screams, the way she looks at me now.

I remember the bright lights and the predictive questions; the black uniforms and guns hanging at the waist. My white shirt decorated with red hand prints, dirt and sweat. My head throbbed; when I touched it I could feel the deep wound.

I said what everybody already knew. I reminded myself of the dreadful summer, allowing the memories to control my mind and disturb me. I said what they knew, but this time I said it to myself.

I killed my father.

 

 

Reviews

[A. Amos]

You my friend are good story teller and I like the subject you penned, interesting piece of work good job my friend...

[WhereItResides]

Very good story! I wouldn't mind a bit of background and to be able to get into the head of the character a bit more, but I enjoyed the story. I'm seeing this mistake far to often lately, don't have nameless characters. If they are not important enough to have names then clearly their stories are not important enough to read. Beyond a very few exceptions, having nameless characters is always a no no. Beyond that, I think you a pretty good job a creating the scenes and your descriptions were very well done. I do believe rather than having her go straight into the bathroom, describe her thoughts that led to that action, it will make the character feel much less like a puppet and more like an actual human being.
Overall I really enjoyed this story, I generally thought the character was well done and you painted her background and actions very well. Your descriptions were excellent with a nice mix of showing vs. telling and it was a very good tale to read.

Courtesy of the Constructive Critics.

[ReneeJ]

Thank you for the insight :)

[NoelHC]

This is powerful, moving and shocking all at the same time. I found I had to go back and read it again, as I had missed the flashback.
I would suggest it may be easier for the reader if you added a space between paragraphs, to break them up a bit, there is a lot of text here, and I found I sometimes lost my place on the screen.
Otherwise, I found this a very good piece of writing.
Well done!

[ReneeJ]

Thank you :)