Writing by Kaitlin Gray

Here is another random story I wrote... enjoy:)

                She didn’t sing. Though, I knew she had every single word memorized by heart. She just sat silently, watching. Waiting. Glancing out the car window, she looked at Yard Sale signs and gas stations.

                Her lips are pursed in a stuck up manor. In her head, no thoughts appear but one: Whatever.

                They pull up the driveway, into the garage. There she turns from her mother without saying a word. Ignoring the patient waiting, the strain to hear an answer. Each one of them sits there, staring. Each one waits, but they only wait for something which is never to be heard. Never to be found.

                Her mother’s voice chimes in her head like a bell. She is speaking of a powerful word. A word the girl will never quite understand. Consequences.

                She opens the door abruptly as soon as the car comes to a stop. Whatever.

                One person understands her. One person out of a trillion. A needle in a haystack. Yet this person is inaccessible. Gone.

                Storming in the house, she throws off her shoes. Purposely, she slams the door. Hard and loud. Purposely she makes a mess of the shoes in the shoe basket. Purposely she does everything in her power to make her mom upset. She will get away with it; she is already in the deep.

                Stomping up the stairs she runs to her bedroom. Locks the door; hears the small click. This is the last place she has freedom. The last place she may find peace without… them. Nonetheless they are inescapable. This is why she comes here, locks the door.

                Her bed is unmade. Oh, what her mother would say if she saw it. She laughs, giving herself pleasure with the thought. Her laptop is open on her desk, a task remaining before her to be done. It is an option, an option where she can have the pleasure to escape. Where she can make anything happen, and everything goes her way. Though she simply stares, letting the task float above her head. What is it? What is the problem? Is she anxious? No, it is not anxiety that she feels. Rather it is regret, anger, frustration. So she cannot write? The girl does not understand the problem; just that it is there.

The girl sighs. Whatever. She turns one particular word around in her head. Plays with it, tries to find ways to make it backfire. There is no way. What can she do? Consequences.

                A knock hits her door. A woman, standing behind a barrier she cannot pass. She is trapped, but so is the girl. The girl ignores it, simply sitting at her desk staring at the open laptop. Not touching, looking. Admiring it’s beauty. It was a gift.

                She hears the woman walk away. She speaks words through the door before turning, but the girl tosses them away without listening. She does not care, what is the woman to her?

                She has a name: Mother. That is what she is to her.

                She disregards the thoughts of her, not to be rude but to prevent. There is a difference.

                The girl finishes her task, but not in the way it was meant to be done. She is meant to write, and she is as that is what she loves to do. But she does not write in the way she was meant to. She does not write a story; she writes a day. A day she only wishes she could take back, could relive. Yet, if given the chance, she only wonders if given a second chance she would do anything different. She only sits there, wondering.

                She reminds herself there is a way. There is one way to take back what she has done. One way, and that is through forgiveness.  But in the end, it never changes what has been done. People forgive, family forgives. That is what they are meant to do. But in the end, the consequences persist. The past is locked in stone, or rather locked in time. Although it can be forgiven, it can never be removed. Time itself may never be changed. She fears this. It is the truth.

                But she does not move. She sits still at her desk, wishing she could just scream off the feelings she feels, like her sister is doing now, just next door. But sadly, it isn’t that easy. Even if she forgives those who have wronged her, will those who she has wronged forgive her? It leaves her to wonder, and so she does not move. Does not turn and go down the stairs, giving her mother another chance. This is something she will later regret. She continues typing, for no apparent reason but to let off steam. There is other ways. Her sister merely screams. Her brother cries. Her father leaves. But she is different, she writes.

                Why? People ask. Why write?

                The girl wants to answer, but cannot. She can’t explain the power she feels when she reads something she has written. Something she realizes has potential. The answer is she has a gift. Everyone does. Hers is to write, and so that is what she does. She sits at her laptop and writes, though she should be doing something else. There is much more to do, but she writes. And this she will only regret, as the word appears again.

                Consequences.