talk to the hand

Tags

angst, books, fiction, forest, lonely, photography, picture it and write, poetry, psychology, talk to the hand, teenager, writing

I urge people to join in, comment with your paragraph of fiction to accompany the image. It doesn’t have to follow my story or reflect the same themes. It can be a poem or in a different language (provide a translation please :)). Anyone who wants to join in, is welcome. This photograph has been reblogged under Ermisenda on tumblr.

Tears streamed down my face, I didn’t wipe them away. I could still hear the incessant bickering between my parents. Plates broke and glasses shattered. When their furious eyes turned to me, I left. The gloomy woods scratched my skin as I forced myself into it’s frigid embrace. Anywhere was better than home. “He’s your son!” The screech of my step mother echoed amongst the trees. I tripped and fell. My blurred gaze rose, I saw someone. It was her: the girl. The light illuminated her but shadowed me. I wanted some of that light, the light she took from me. “Do you hear him at night? He talks to himself.” I tried to force my step mother’s voice out from my mind but it only grew stronger. I rose. The girl stared at me and blinked slowly. My hand reached out to touch her, to take back what was mine. The chilling air bit at my fingers. “Please,” I begged. “You’re all I have.” The girl smiled. The voice of my step mother maliciously hissed from the foliage beneath our feet. “Schizophrenic.”