Only Thirteen

How would you feel to a prisoner to your own body. To never be able to say no and escape the hellish life you were forced to live.
     The first step is being taken. Lured into a trap with words that are so honey-soaked and sweet it's almost a dream. Promises of luxury are easily excepted. That's how they get you. The next thing you know you're being blindfolded and taken to a place too far away from any familiar surroundings for you to ever be able to escape.
     Each man you are forced to take; no matter how old or hideous, rich or poor — they will all treat you the same. Like your just a quick f*ck. They pay their miniscule little fee to do whatever they want to you, and if you dare try to say no, you are going to be severely punished.
     You aren’t allowed to see your family or friends — the other women and girls are your only friends now. They will teach you ways to get more men — so that hopefully, you can pay off the “debt” you have, so maybe you can actually go free.
     This is your life now. This is how you will live the rest of your tortured life until the day you die. You have no real hope of escape. You have no one that cares about you more than life itself. You have no mother, no father, no one that will defend you when you scream for help.
     You have lost your right to say no. Your right to stand up for yourself. Your right to go and do as you please.
     But most of all, you have lost your right to live.

Tears of an Angel

Nothing hurts worse than the afterlife feeling of your parents putting you into the ground. How you can still sense my mother’s inhuman cries staying hidden in the back of her throat, knowing she must keep her composure until she gets home. There she will cry for days straight nonstop from the death of her baby girl. Her heart will slowly shrink with each passing moon, it growing bitter in cruel.

I can feel the hatred welling up inside my father’s soul. He hates everyone around him and contemplates beating my mother, although she had nothing to do with my murder.

            Murder. Was that all it was? Murder seems so kind to me now. . . .

            What they did to me was not murder. It was not a quick gunshot to the head or even as quick as drowning. It was weeks of. . . Everything.

　

Day 1

I was never the preppy blond-haired, blue-eyed girl that had rich parents and was basically a Barbie her whole life. I had brown hair, brown eyes and my parents were middle class, working Americans. I went to school and came home with mostly A’s, which my mom and dad were content with. I was in band and was usually one of the upper chairs.

Basically, I was average.

Most days, my one of my parents, or even my Aunt Linda would come pick me up from school on their way home from work, but if the traffic was bad, I would walk home. It wasn’t a long trek — only about five minutes — and in broad daylight the entire way home.

I heard the squeal of tires protesting such a sharp turn on the pavement, and the forceful sound of the engine pulling its heavy load.

The next thing I remembered my feet were hitting the cement at such a quick pace I knew my heart was going to pound it’s way right out of my chest. I didn’t have the right state of mind to think to run into my neighbors house, where I would most likely be welcomed with cookies and milk. All my instincts were telling me was run faster! Run faster! Keep running! Hurry!

I screamed when they grabbed me, screamed with such a terrified shrill of horror I knew someone would come save me.

They didn’t. No one even bothered to look outside.

The two men that had taken hold of my arms told me to shut up or they would kill me. My mom always told me they were going to kill me anyway, so put up as much of a fight as I could.

My leg swung out, meaning to hit him in his manhood, but missed and kicked him in the stomach.

“Ow! You stupid b*tch!” He yelled, and then slapped me across the face, stunning me for a moment. That moment was all they needed to shove me into the gray minivan, knocking my head against the opposite side hard enough that I lost my grip on the light of day.

　

I couldn’t breathe right. I struggled against the strained rope, already too tight around my wrists and ankles tied awkwardly behind my back. My eyes flashed opened, and a muffled screamed escaped my lips.

A gun clicked, ready to fire.

“Don't make another sound,” he commanded me.

This can’t be happening to me! There’s no place like home! There’s no place like home!

I stared at the man with wide, terrified eyes his scary hazel eyes staring back at me with such a sheer madness they almost danced inside his head with — with what? What was that that I saw in his eyes?

Years of NCIS, Law and Order, Bones, and CSI flooded into my head, each episode playing so clearly in my head that I couldn’t help but begin to cry, endeavoring with all my strength and will of mind not to make a sound; but the tears flowed freely.

“Stop crying!” The man with hazel eyes snapped, kicking me in the stomach. The pain was excruciating. My vision spotted with black around the edges; but I had to stay conscious! I had to have some idea of where I was!

Outside the windows, which were already tinted way too much and offered little visibility, all I could see was sky. No trees or road signs. Nothing but sky. Not even a cloud to give me some comfort.

For at least two hours I stayed quiet, not making a single sound, or giving the man another reason to kick me. When the van finally lurched to a halt, my body ran cold for just a second as my heart skipped a beat in my chest.

The two other men grabbed me under my arms and my ankles, hauling me out of the van. I was so in shock I didn’t even think to squirm or fight them off. Where would I have gone anyway? There was no way I would ever be able to outrun three fully grown men.

I looked around with eyes as wide as could be, trying to see through the blackness lining every inch of the hallways — until we reached a huge set of doors, that led into a grand hall. The sudden lights made me flinch away, and the two men dropped me when I did. Along the side, I could see maybe ten or more girls, all around my age, but no older than eighteen, lining the walls, ankles in chains. Every one of them were hysterical.

My stomach knotted, more terrified at this moment than at any other time during this horrific event.

“That makes fifteen, Boss. We gettin’ paid now?” The driver said with a very thick New York accent.

“Of course; but first . . . Let me see her.”

Two of the men picked me up, untying my hands and feet, but keeping a firm hold on my wrists. They hauled me towards the man sitting in a red, velvet lined throne made of wood painted to look gold.

Trying not to let the Boss get a good look at me, I kept my eyes on the ground, but one of the men yanked on my hair, which made me scream. I got a good look at the man in the chair. He had messy, dark brown hair that was almost black, yet scary blue eyes, and a scruffy beard. He was very tall with a medium build.

I was petrified of him.

“This one,” he said softly, and clapped three times.

Two older women around their mid thirties came out of no where and, grabbing my wrists, lugged me away down yet another corridor.

We eventually came to a powder room — or what I assumed was one — and they sat me down, going to work like little worker bees. The redhead pulled open the doors to a large wardrobe, picking a dainty little pink and white outfit.

“No!” I screamed, flying out of the chair and towards the door, but the other woman with dirty blond hair grabbed my arm just before I got out of reach. “No! Let me go! Let me go!” I shrieked, tears pouring from my eyes. “Please, let me go!”

“I can’t do that. Not when my daughters life is on the line.”

With a strength I didn’t know was human, she yanked me back into that chair and snapped at me that if I pulled a little stunt like that again, that she would knock me out cold and wake up to the worst thing imaginable.

The dirty blond washed my face of any dirt and grime, then added a thin layer of eyeliner around my brown eyes, and then a few shades of eye shadow, and even mascara, before covering my face in a heavy layer of powder.

“Now get dressed! The redhead snapped, throwing the outfit at me. I obeyed, tears still spilling from my eyes.

“And stop crying! You’re ruining your makeup!”

I willed back the tears and stared at them again.

“The Boss will be in here in a few minutes. Sit on the edge of the bed and you better do as he says. You wouldn’t want to disobey him.”

Again, I did as I was told, my entire body shaking violently.

Half an hour went by — that’s what I thought before I checked the clock; only two minutes. That’s when he walked in the door, naked except for a towel. His hair was wet and water still dripped down his body. I tried not to cry again. It didn’t work.

He took a few, slow steps towards me and stood there for a second before he back-slapped me across the face, knocking me nearly onto the floor.

“I didn’t mean that love!” he said instantly, picking me back up, and stroking my jaw line. “You’re so beautiful.”

I’ll spare you the details of what happened next . . . I’m thankful I didn’t have to live with the memories of what he put me through that night.

　

Day 4

Every night now the same man has come into my room and raped me until I bled, beaten me until I was black and blue, and just recently has given me a concussion from smacking me into the concrete wall. Every day I wish I could kill myself.

Day 7

This is the first night he has left me completely alone, although I’ve been locked in this room all day with nothing to eat or drink, or even a bathroom. I throw up all the time from just the memories, and my room stinks like no other. Hopefully if I keep it that way, he’ll leave me alone permanently.

Day 15

A gunshot sounded throughout the entire building, silencing every bit of noise that might have been happening to float around. I shoved clenched fists to the side of my head to cover my ears. For the next few hours, everything was quiet.

The two maids that had “taken care” of me were just outside my door when I heard them talking. I leaned my ear against the door to hear them better, but as soon as I did, the door swung open and I fell onto the floor.

“You b*tch! You were spying on us!”

“No — I —”

There was a small tub just outside my doorway. They both took hold of my wrists once again, and simultaneously pulled out small knives from their front pockets.

“Do you know what we do to spies?!” The redhead yelled, and sliced the sharpened blade across my wrist. I shrieked and the sound echoed throughout the hallways long enough for the second woman to cut me again.

All in all, I left with five badly bleeding cuts on my arms, and three soaked towels.

Day 22

Three girls have been shot, then raped after they refused to do so before, then dumped their bodies somewhere where no one would find them. I just wanted to go home.

The maids came into my room just like every other day to "fix up" my room. When Lauri (I learned that was the redheads name) walked by me with the red, lacy outfit I'd been forced to wear the night before, I reached into the pocket on the front of her apron, pulling out the ever present four inch knife. I held it up to her with an aggressive stance, showing her I meant business.

    "Ha!" She choked. "What are you going to do? Kill me?"
    "Yes!" I yelled, shoving it up into her throat and pulling it down through her neck.
    The blond screamed, but no one would come looking because everyone was use to those kind of screams. The kind where you could hear the agony in the voices of the victims that would echo through the halls too eerily for you to believe it was truly human.
    I stabbed her in the back as she tried to run away, but adrenaline was pumping through my veins, bringing forth my strength that she couldn't match. When she fell to the ground, I stabbed her again and again until she finally shut up.
    Her blood pooled around her, little splatters spotting my face , hair, chest and especially my arms. Finding a towel I had used to stop my wrists from bleeding out, I wiped off all the blood I could, and threw it back into the corner with the other two already bloody towels.

I shoved the two maids tightly into the wardrobe, after pressing my only clean towel into the throat of the redhead, and wiping up the blood from the tile floor.

A few hours later I heard the Boss's voice, shouting at the maids that they would be punished if they didn't show their faces in the next two seconds.

"Lauri! Judy! If you don't get in here now you will wish you were never born! . . . Lauri! Judy! Get in here now!"

I laughed. I laughed manically, knowing that their bodies were stuffed into the small space that was my wardrobe. The man busted through my door, demanding to know where they were. I looked at him innocently, realizing the bloody knife was still lying on the ground, not two inches from my bed. I prayed he didn't see it.

"I don't know," I whispered sensually. "But why don't you leave for a second while I put on something sexy instead of these old rags." I put my hand on  his chest, keeping my eyes locked on his. His eyes got wide and a wry smile spread across his face.

"Glad to see you're finally coming around," he said, turning to leave.

I rushed to find any clean garment that wasn't completely covered in blood, and put it on. It was black with lacy edges and intentional tears along each side. It was almost like a leotard, but with no. . . "bottom" part. It was almost made like a harness.

"Of course," I sighed, my head dropping slightly.

I took a deep breath and pulled my hair over over my face, messing it up just a little bit. Before I opened the door to welcome the man back in, I hid the bloody knife under the pillow he would throw me on.

"God give me strength," I whispered, just barely audible even to myself, then opened the door.

The man was waiting for me, leaning up against the opposite wall from my room, his hands in his pockets

"Very nice," the man said, walking towards me.

"I thought you'd like it."

I shut the door behind me and ran onto the bed, pulling him onto me by holding two fistfuls of his shirt in my hands.

"Take it off!" I hissed sweetly.

He obeyed instantly, kissing me fiercely. I tried not to gag at the cigarette-vodka taste in his mouth. Just when he was about to once again violate me for the unteenth time, I reached behind me to under the pillow, feeling for the blade that would finally set me free.

Where is it?! It isn’t here!

I started to freak out, but careful not to let the man know of my plan. I felt around on the ground for it — yes!

“Hey, what are you —”

The crazy ba*tard didn’t get to finish his sentence before I thrust the blade into his stomach, yanking it towards me. I could have cared less that his blood was going everywhere, or that he was chocking me now. He would die before I would. I stabbed him again, this time making sure that he would die! So much blood poured onto the sheets, my legs, torso, and even onto the floor, it was a miracle he was still alive.

I pushed his body off of me, and, putting a bloody skirt on over the outfit, started running as fast as I could through the stone corridors, my bare feet slapping noisily against the slabs. Just as I threw open the main doors, I saw the same three men that had kidnapped me, a new girl in tow.

Almost on instinct now, I stabbed randomly at the men, my crazed look telling them I would do anything to get free. My eyes were twitching, my clothes were in tatters, my hair was wild, and most of all, I was completely covered in blood so fresh it was still dripping to the floor.

They threw the younger girl aside and lunged towards me. My feet were once again flying over the floor, carrying me faster than my mind could comprehend. I heard one of the men yell a command to the others, and suddenly the halls were silent except for my own frantic feet. Despite everything, my heart raced faster.

The warm fluid was all I felt in the millisecond for the needle to puncture the sin on my neck. It spread quickly through my body; too quick. My body smacked tot he floor, sliding for a bit before I stopped. No part of my body would respond to my desperate please, begging for it to get up and keep running.

All three men loomed over me, looking down with pure disgust. One of them — the man with hazel eyes — put a dirty rag over my face . . .

And they slaughtered me.

— Crawford

     Age 13

Girls, we are beautiful!!

"You're too fat!"
"You're too skinny!"
"You're too ugly!"
"You're not good enough!"

At one of these thoughts has gone through our minds as we stare at ourselves in the mirror, wishing we could be our version of "beautiful". The tall girls wish they could be shorter, and the "fat" girls wish they could be thin as a twig. But what is the point in fussing over something that won't happen?!
     Don't you have someone that thinks you're beautiful just the way you are? You're parents, siblings, aunts/uncles, grandmas/grandpas, etc. could not love you more if you were "perfect". There are many girls that aren't under 100lbs that are absolutely gorgeous! But on that note, there are skinny girls that hardly reach 85lbs that aren't the prettiest girls ever; but someone loves them.
     You are beautiful. It doesn't matter if you're short, or you have a crooked nose, if your breasts are too small, or anything else! I've actually come to peace with all the things I have actually cried over because I felt so ugly. Turns out all I needed was God to make me feel better about myself.
     If a guy doesn't like me, that's his loss. I don't need him to feel beautiful about myself -- so why should you? Think about the millions of women that would slit the throat of a human being if it meant they would be able to look like you. To have those sexy curves or that pretty face... It'd be a dream come true. Love yourselves girls! You are too beautiful for you to possibly be "not worth it".
     Say you don't listen to a word you've just read. In one ear, out the other...
     If you can't love yourself, who can?

Folklore

The differences and similarities in folklore, no matter where they originated, is everywhere throughout every one of the stories; such as Bloody Mary, Bloody Sink, and A Ghost at the Dance where, in every one of them, death was apparent, and a paranormal being was present. But there were many more differences.

First difference: How they died
A. Early America. Bloody Mary died from being burned at the steak after murdering several young girls to make herself young again.
B. Mexico. The young woman had died of consumption the night before the ball her parents had been planning for her for months.
C. United States — Modern day. A boy, who was severely intoxicated, accidentally slipped and smashed his head against the sink in the third story boys bathroom.

Second difference: The settings
A. Early America. In a village (seemingly) in Virginia.
B. Mexico. At a dance with many other people in the same room.
C. United States — Modern day. In a college dorm.

Third difference: Who was involved
A. Early America. An entire village, who had sadly lost many of their young girls because a witch was selfish and wanted to look young and beautiful again.
B. Mexico. Simply two boys; the one who had danced with the deceased girl, and his friend who had later told the first boy he had been dancing with a ghost.
C. United States — Modern day. Only one boy, who had tried to be bold and enter the third story bathroom, only to find a ghost with its head bashed in.

It’s not too difficult to see the differences in all these stories, whether it be how someone died, where it was set, or who was involved. Every story has its morals; it’s just up to you to decipher them. Good luck.

Uninspired

Our class was told to write yet another thINK for our English class if we didn't want our grade to go down, but what are we suppose to do when we can't think of one thing to write about, no matter how hard we truly and diligently try?
     I tried to write about something I actually think about a lot, some sort of dilemma I am or was facing . . . nothing worked. Nothing spoke to me! I hate that I'm being forced to write when I just feel like, well, that I'm being forced. Maybe one thINK per every nine weeks wouldn't be that bad, because every now and again I actually have something important I want to say.
     Being made to write isn't something I can really do. The thINKs aren't a story like I can do without so much as a thought; they're something that make us suppose to think about something. I can't do that. Not when I'm made to.
     This is not a protest or a rant in any way whatsoever; especially not being rude towards my teacher.
Actually, if you think about it, this is something to think about, only because there is nothing to think about. That might not make much sense, but if it does, more than likely you realize what I mean by all of this.
     Sometimes you just can't help but be uninspired.

Final Moment

In the orange light of the setting sun on the final day of the most perfect summer, the water struggles to snag the last of the scarce rays still settling over the surface. I feel the wet sand squish between my toes and my heels dig deep into the sand. Breathing in the salty air wafting from the all too perfect ocean, I could almost taste the bitter water. Again and again the waves lap at my ankles and splashed delicately against my calves, sending goose bumps all throughout my body despite the warmth of the still-summer air. The wind speaks to me as a long lost friend, waiting for us to be reunited. It wraps around my arms and legs like a silk ribbon, whipping my hair around my head, stinging my face like a host of needles, but causes me no pain. I let out a sad, silent, breath as the greedy horizon claimed the sun from the sky, leaving me alone on the darkened beach.

--Hannah Dutrisac

The Woods

Look at me. I am only twenty years old and I cannot stand myself. I wish I could go back to the days before…
     I was only five years old. I was a poor, innocent child, and he stole that from me. Those are his hands holding the heart. My heart. I trusted him and he broke it. My dad always told mom that he was not right. That she needed to divorce him. And she did. It was just too late. The damage had already been done. My hands rip my chest open now because I will give my heart to any man now. I don’t care to give all I have to a man that will tell me he loves me. The first one stole it from me. There is a big empty black space where my heart use to be. I wish I could be innocent. That’s why I got rid of all of the white — it stands for innocence.
     The dark forest in my mind shows me again and again where it happened. One day, I was playing, and then . . . .
     My eyes are painted dark because what is the point of showing joy when you have none. All my joy is gone. The lines and design of this picture are very vivid because my memory is vivid. I made myself look the other way. I can’t bear to see the pain of him holding the only heart I had. I was only five. Years. Old. He forced me to grow up. To lose the pure childhood I had. I won’t forgive him until my day in court comes and I can see him in chains and shackles like he has put me in. I can’t form a relationship with a man. I can’t trust my friends.
     I go see my ther-rapist three times a week, but it doesn’t help. All that awful man does is make me bring the memory back up. He made me paint this picture. I can’t do this anymore. I wonder if he noticed that tears running down my eyes. Did he notice that my crimson lips are darker than my heart. There is not a five year old girl in the world who wears make-up unless it’s for dress up. I never got to be a child. He stole that from me. He cut the space in my chest for my heart to fall. my blond hair is gone, never to show again what I use to be. I turned it black at the first foster home I was allowed to. That was about the fourth one. They kept throwing me out because I couldn’t trust the man that was living there.
     I am older now, and I should be growing up, getting married and having kids like the rest of the people my age are. But I just can’t. I have to learn how to trust a man before I could ever even start to have a life. My life sucks. This is not the first picture. This will not be the last picture. I thought of this when I was called heartless. I yelled and screamed before I realized I really was heartless. I had nothing to give because all I had was taken and stolen from me. I will never forget that night in the woods. I will never get past that night in the woods. I will always be stuck in the woods.
　
picture:http://www.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://www.mythreeringcircus.com/wp-content/uploads/dramaticbw2web.jpg&imgrefurl=http://www.mythreeringcircus.com/tag/black-and-white-photography/&usg=__gJxzqUqJQDIi9OpUroElAIAvYwE=&h=600&w=400&sz=136&hl=en&start=34&sig2=ISnWiOCclq367lw3-QIiHQ&zoom=1&tbnid=eEEh6zelLr9BsM:&tbnh=141&tbnw=94&ei=avqjTKX-KY6lngfvsdCADg&prev=/images%3Fq%3Dblack%2Band%2Bwhite%2Bpicture%2Bof%2Ba%2Blittle%2Bgirl%2Bwith%2Bno%2Bheart%26hl%3Den%26sa%3DX%26rlz%3D1R2TSHB_enUS329%26biw%3D1123%26bih%3D613%26tbs%3Disch:1&itbs=1&iact=rc&dur=515&oei=Y_qjTIHuI8T68AaU7-3QCQ&esq=3&page=3&ndsp=19&ved=1t:429,r:7,s:34&tx=69&ty=48

Hideously Beautiful

This picture is not beautiful. At least, not to me. You see flowers and a beautiful lake, reflecting the green trees and tall, majestic mountains in the background. But I see evil. I see how something should have animals and signs of life surrounding it, inhabiting the supposed beautiful scene pained before you. I see how the once glorious picture could have been pretty before, but if you look harder, there is no beauty. There is death in the animals where they no longer walk. Perhaps it was hunting season and everything had been killed or driven from their homes out of fear. Or is the pond poisoned, slowly destroying every that tries to sedate its thirst and drinks the tainted water.

     Over time the cold will take over and the green will become brown and fragile. The snowcapped mountains will be black and hideous, ominous in their presence. The beautifully blue lake will dry up or become polluted and disgusting; then what. What do you have left when everything is gone?

     Were you to highlight this image, you would see what I can see. Everything is just wrong. Or do we just refuse to see the bad in something that must be beautiful. Why do we make it beautiful in our eyes? What makes it so lovely and perfect?

     The serenity could easily be mistaken for solemnity. Not just the word itself but the condition of the scene. The quiet could be eerie — not a single sound daring to be heard, risking too much if it did.
     This could be a murder scene, a body, that had been brutally and violently murdered, secretly hidden in the bushes. The victim could have had three kids and a loving spouse, but their life was taken out of rage, jealousy, or for no apparent reason.

     But how would you know. All you see is a beautiful lake surrounded by trees.

Image:

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Thesis for "The Rattler"

In the story "The Rattler," dutiful and apologetic tones portray the fact that the man must kill the snake, even though a certain amount of sadness is leaked into the feeling. Though the man faces his worthy opponent (in his eyes) and he does not want to kill something for no reason, he must to potentially save the lives of livestock, children, family, and friends.