Ghosts of Her Past

When I went to therapy two years ago, I was told writing down how I felt would help me when I felt depressed. That's what this is, a vent-of-feelings.

She had no more tears left to cry; they'd all been used up in the previous months. Instead she had went into a fit of rage. She threw her many pictures of him. Glass surrounded her in every direction. And when she was done she had sat down. She acted as nothing happened as she picked up the picture she was currently holding. She looked down at the picture in her hands. There was blood smeared across it from the cuts in her hands, but she could clearly see the picture of him. Of her dad.
Then she screamed. Her scream was filled with hatred, agony, and most of all, sadness. No one would hear her. Her mother was off with her brother; they'd left her home.Her dad? He'd killed himself earlier that year. Though he wouldn't have been there anyway, her parents were divorced. She was angry at him; for not saying goodbye or even that he'd loved her. She was angry at her mom; for divorcing her dad. She was angry at her step-dad; for taking her dad's place in her family. She was angry at her brother; for no reason at all. She was even angry at herself; for not noticing something was wrong with him. But the one person she was the most angry at, she couldn't even speak to. God.
She blamed God for taking her dad. Why? Because since she was a little girl, everyone told her that God created people's lives. God controlled what happened to people. So she blamed him the most. Eventually (more like three years), she would come to realize that her dad made his own choice. That God had nothing to do with it. But for now, in her young state, she needed a reason -any reason- as to why her dad would leave her.
Over the next months the girl that was full of life would cease to exist. And the girl that was sitting in the ruins of broken pictures, would make her appearance. As she sat there, surrounded in the broken glass, she glanced up. And in the mirror she couldn't recognize herself. The girl in the mirror was her. This person looking back at her had her face and body, but she didn't have her life. The girl in the mirror was just a ghost, a solemn remnant, of who she used to be.
She was truly, utterly, and undeniably broken.

Author's Note

Please try not to review too harshly. This took a lot of courage for me to post, as it is a very personal subject. Thank you.

Reviews

[Ashley]

I love this story, I could really feel what you felt writing this. I'm glad you had the courage to share it with everyone, it's hard for most people to.

[Nicole Castille]

Thank you!