Prologue

Prologue

A small blotch of white on the dark canvas. I gripped the brush in my hand. I needed it to feel alive, even for a moment.

Years of anger and sadness absorbed into the painting. Anger. I was angry. I was angry at those who didn’t care. And the ones that learned not to care. And the ones that cared too much. In my mind, they were all wrong.

At first, my family had cared. They had asked me what was wrong thousands of times, they made me go to a therapist. But none of it helped. Now they ignore what I have become. They still ask me if I’m okay, sometimes. They feed me, they give me money to buy things, and they suggest councilors every now then. But they can’t give me the help I need. No one can. So, they gave up and just let me go. Not physically, but mentally. It was too tiring for them to hold on.

 My grandmother came over one time. She walked over to me and asked, “What is wrong with you?” When I didn’t answer she slapped me with enough force to turn my head. I walked to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. There was an angry red mark in the shape of her hand. But I didn’t cry. I didn’t feel the pain. I didn’t feel anything at all.

I heard my mother and father yelling at her. “How did you possibly think that that could help?” my mother asked.

“I was trying to knock some sense into her!” Grandmother shouted back.

“I don’t think hitting her will do much good!” my dad roared.

“Maybe the reason she’s still like this is because neither of you tried it!”

 They went on like this for some time. I do not know how long. It didn’t matter. Finally a timer went off and I hear my mom rush to the oven.

My dad knocked on the bathroom door. “Dinner is done, honey,” He said, “want to come join us?”

I opened the door and walked out into the hallway. My dad smiled at me, I didn’t usually come to meals. I ate later or earlier then everyone else. I hated that silence where we eat our food and say nothing to each other. Every other silence was okay. Just not that one.

Maybe it was because I remember how meals used to be. Maybe that’s why I hate it so much. I remember the talking, the laughing, and I knew that the only way I could get that back is changing back. I didn’t want to change back. I was okay with feeling nothing but anger and sadness. At least that way I couldn’t be hurt anymore then I already am.

Grandmother never visited again. But, sometimes Mom, Dad, and Katharine would visit her at her house or meet her for dinner. They always asked if I wanted to come, but I just shook my head. It wasn’t because Grandmother hit me. It was just because I didn’t care enough. I still don’t care.

I don’t hate the world even though most people think I do. I don’t care enough to hate the world.

There was one point when I did care. Or at least I cared enough to pretend that I cared more then I actually did. My parents where so happy, they thought they had their old daughter back. It was because of him. He helped me to care again. He introduced me to art, too.     

Reviews

[The Shadow of the Dawn]

i like it i raelly do update it soon

[Sophie]

I love this, as you know!!!!