Scarred

• Brittney Paulet, Grade 11
• Short Story
• 2020

I have done it again. Some say it’s a waste of a life, but they don’t understand that life is a waste. And now I’m here. People stare at me here. They stare at me like I’m a ticking bomb, ready to explode at any moment. They think I can’t see that they are walking on eggshells around me. Do I terrify? Are they afraid of me?
They shoved me into this room, where minutes turn into days and days turn into months. It was my birthday last week. No cake, no presents, no friends nor family. I know those things seem insignificant, but it would be nice if everything could go back to normal, just for one day. I remember my childhood birthdays, where I would sit at the head of the table, with my family’s loving eyes watching me make my wish before blowing out each flame. I remember making naïve wishes like ‘becoming a princess’, or ‘getting my dream holiday’. Now I scoff at those wishes.
The cold, bare walls stare back at me, the paint peeling off in places to reveal the markings of previous captives. A wrought iron bed in the corner, dressed in an old, torn sheet. A small barred window allows scraps of sunlight in, although the room remains dark and chilling. Despite it being summer outside, the gloom of winter constantly surrounds me. I can still hear the ear-piercing screams echoing through the corridors, bouncing off the walls, along with the racing heartbeats. I can still see the haunting faces, the terrified looks each person wears as they enter this strange, new place. I can still smell the fear of the people here before me.
No one visits me. No one comes to see if I’m still okay. I don’t even know what “okay” is anymore. I occasionally see my family. They appear and disappear like fragments of my imagination. They don’t talk. They just stare. What do they think I’ve become? Don’t they realise that it’s still me behind this locked door, banging for someone to let me out? Don’t they realise that I am trapped in this hell that they call “life”? No, of course not. All they see is the scars. Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
It’s easy to lose your mind in a place like this. These are my hands, my feet, although I seem to be looking on from someone else’s body. Voices tell me what to do, and I must obey. I must do whatever they say. It’s like I’ve let someone else take the wheel, and I am sitting in the back seat. Forgotten. Helpless. I’ve lost control. The voices tell me to harm myself. I can’t help thinking that it would all be easier if I just gave in. I can’t escape these voices in my head. I’ve had enough…