Young Writers Society

You scream my name. Someone was always screaming. Loud, shrill, bonechilling. The kind of scream that made my heart curdle and my lungs turn out cold. The kind of scream that turned our eyes bloodshot and caused you to feel the cold sting of pain, all prematurely.

I wince and pull my limbs together, to feel tight, safe, secure. My fingers wrap around one another like a broken hearted lover, grasping his suicide rope. Is that what we have become?

You throw the vase your sister made for us at the blank of wall above my head. Blank, as blank as my unfeeling heart, as your pessimistic soul. You call me foul names, and I believe I am those things. You ask me how I could be so selfish, how I could ruin your life like this.

You swear at the child we made and call me worthless. You say Emily’s birth means nothing. You yell and tell me you wish we were both dead. I don’t say anything, but I wish we were too.

Your body is possessed and your face is only a representation of your cynical spirit. The muscle in your neck pulses, and you kick my wall, releasing the words you can’t say. The neighbor’s wife lets out a quick shriek before she is silenced by her husband, protecting their façade of tolerance. I don’t weep because I have to be strong: my false face of courage keeps me numb. My false face of courage is all I have left.

Instead, I pull up my sleeve and trace the marks you left on my arm last night. Bravely, bitterly, sadly, numbly, almost automatically. They feel like bruises through my skin and black blood through my veins. You see me and shout. How could I dare remind you of that? You say. Everyone knows our demonic tendencies are the easiest to hide. But my recent scars serve their inevitable purpose, and I watch you break.

This bridge we build every night and so rarely burn, crumbles. We both seem to let go of our strangling grasp – on dreams, on reality, on whatever we call real. We plummet to the earth, and I can almost feel our ribs shatter like those of a jumper who has no reason left for living.

You start to cry; I begin to sob. You collapse with your back towards the wall, next to me. Your breath comes in gasps while tears that feel like blood continue to fall down the sides of my face in torrents. You kiss the black marks you’ve made on my arms.

I know you'll love me forever; I know I'll love you forever. Yet we can’t seem to keep a tight hold on our souls.

I can’t live like this.

I can’t not live like this.

This is extremely deep, and dark. I really hope it's just you exploring some part of your mind with writing, but it feels real. I hope you're ok, and that no one deserved to get treated like this, you need to know that.
But this is extremely amazing writing you've done here, you excelled at making the reader feel emotion. The words paint vivid pictures.

This bridge we build every night and so rarely burn, crumbles. We both seem to let go of our strangling grasp – on dreams, on reality, on whatever we call real. We plummet to the earth, and I can almost feel our ribs shatter like those of a jumper who has no reason left for living

My favorite paragraph.

Anyway I hope you're not going through this, but this writing was exquisite.

Hello there.

This is an amazing piece you've written. I don't have much to say...

You throw the vase your sister made for us at the blank of wall above my head.

I think it makes more sense that way.

Overall, it was great. You were able to capture the emotion and give it to us in the purest way. It was very raw, and it's what makes the whole story. The only thing that bothers me is that it's a story I've heard thousand of times... Guy hits girl, girl doesn't want to leave because she loves him, Guy is sorry, but girl knows he'll do it again. You've made it good with your writing style, but there's something of yourself missing in the plot. You should try to make it your own, put a piece of yourself into it.

This is the only critical thing I have to say. One last time, the story was great. I truly enjoyed reading it.

-Other One