The old wooden fence

Girl seeks refuge from an old wooden fence

There is an old wooden fence, I go there when everything gets too hard and I just can’t cry. I go there in the evenings when the sun is bowing, making way for its lover to shine its pale light across the sky. When my mind is full and I get so sick inside, so sick that the tears refuse to slide down my cheek, finally telling me it’s time to explode.

The wooden fence is a rest spot, a shoulder when I feel my legs failing me. I go there when the voices in a world filled with black dust clouds your way. There can be so much confusion and heartlessness that no one is able to hear your voice when you scream or look into your eyes and see the pain, caged for so many years.

My name is Eliza and I am alone. I live in a house filled with ten people, yet I am always by myself. I woke up one morning and saw that the house was empty. I had packed my suitcase for the road trip, but it seems as though they had forgotten me. This made my heart beat a little too fast and I began to feel light headed with anger, confusion and even a little hope. Hope that they will see that the curly headed girl was not in the back-seat. I felt that they might have realized that nobody is softly complaining that the music is too loud, or too much sugar in the drink.

This is when the wooden fence comes to my rescue. In my polka dot dress, I climb over the wall and run through the gold and green bushes. I reach out when I see the fence, because I am now tired and It just stands there waiting for me to come.

Nobody likes the wooden fence so they have decorated it with nasty words. I scratch these out with tear filled eyes and a runny nose, then I pray to God and plead “forgive them for they know not what they do”. Maybe the rowdy ones come before I do, because the grass was not pressed by excited bodies and the words have settled into the wood.

I tell the fence my secrets and it never contributes. I only want it to listen while I pour my distress and annoyance. I tell it that I am afraid that I might never be happy because my voice is too low and my head is always bowed. Most importantly, I tell the fence about the time when my uncle came to visit.

He came in a small car, and everybody rolled their eyes, because we knew he crashed the new one again. It was Christmas time, and while I stood in line to be greeted by my fat uncle in the ugly sweater; I felt that he hugged me a little too tight, and I wasn't sure if his hands were supposed to slide across my bum.

Mother told him “she’s getting a little broad in the chest area”. I flushed with embarrassment, because everyone started laughing, and food fell from my cousins’ mouths. He only smirked, and when the joke was long forgotten, I could feel his eyes burning through my dress, warming the little dots my mother called breasts.

I was sleeping when I felt the hands slide across my thigh, I stirred but that didn't deter the hand. The hand reached my chest and gripped my dots with satisfaction, then I heard the low sigh and the uncomfortable way the hand slid across my bottom. I wasn't sure if I was crying, because no tears came from my eyes, I could only feel inside me drain and heavy way my heart felt.

The car wasn't in the drive way that morning, and I was happy. I started running, and even though I didn't know where to, I ran. I saw a hand reaching for me, its skin white and peeling. The legs were crooked and the face tired, but it still waited while I ran. My breathing heavy, and the tears kept on coming, then I ran into its embrace, hard but welcoming.

Every day I visit and tell all my fears. I whisper the secret until my throat is dry and parched, and sometimes I lie by its feet with my body hidden from the world. Some days I feel like I am slipping and soon to be gone, then the old wooden fence calls, and feet go before my mind.

 

 

 

Reviews

[Daydreamer]

Reneej, I assume you already know what I think of your talent 💛
Good attempt at trying to break the conception that "judgments from the surface are usually not true"- the girl has a huge family but is lonely and neglected. And, also, that everyone tends to get sad on somehow, a regular basis or for usual reasons and tends to seek refuge..........
It also sounded like poetry not just a stand-alone story........ Idk if poetic stories exist😆😆😆😅😅😂😂😋😋

[Patricia]

This is really a good write. The descriptions are flawless, and easy for the reader to imagine which in turn makes the story flow with ease and keeps the reader interested to read on. This is more a poetic story than just a story, it is more than that. Many poets write stories in poetic format, like Milton and Dante, etc. I was really impressed with this. Great work of it!!!!

[A. Amos]

I like the story, especially the line, 'I live in a house filled with ten people, yet I am always by myself'. Great write.