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I got inspired by asong called Concrete Angels about a little girl getting abused to the point of death, so I wrote a short story about it.
Link to song
Enjoy~~~~~
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The small girl with dirty blonde hair walked down the street, a small paper bag clutched in her left hand. She had made it herself, a peanut butter sandwich, with only one peice of bread. It was folded in half at the middle, and carefully placd at the bottom of the bag. She walks slowly, and alone, down to where her bus parks so she can go to school. Five other children are there saying goodbye to their parents. The small girl keeps a smile on, though she'd rather just cry. She has a secret that she isn't willing to tell many. Her mother is a drunkard and abuses her daily.
As the small girl steps onto the bus, she hears her fellow 2nd graders mutter and giggle at her dirty dress. She doesn't do anything; doesn't cry, doesn't frown or sigh saddly, just walks to the back of the bus. Some turn to look at her, but she just pulled down her dress's dirty sleeve, and peered out the window. Why were they staring so intently at her, you ask? She wore that same dress to school the day before, and the day before that. It's very hard for her to come by dresses that hide her bruises so well. Her eyes close, and she sighs a deep sigh full of sorrow and pain, and sits back in her seat. She wishes she hadn't been born.
Unlike most, the small girl loved school, though many kids made fun of her. It was the one time she didn't have to fear of being hit with something glass, and she could sleep in class. She hurried off the bus to her first class, where she fell asleep all too easily.
The teacher was looming over the small girl sleeping on her desk, her sleeves pushed back too far. The teacher gently taps her head, and she wakes up. The girl scrambles to pull down her sleeve in time, but the teacher drew too much attention to her. The class is now roaring in laughter at the bruises that had covered her arm. The teacher yells at them to queit down, and walks away, shaking her head. She would ask the small girl, but there are too many kids watching and listening.
The teacher was planning on confonting the small girl, asking her if she'd like to talk about what she was feeling, but she zoomed right out of the classroom, not paying attention to the teacher trying to get her attention. She also didn't come when her fellow classmates told her the teacher wanted her. She just walked quikly away to the park not far from the school. School was over already, but she isn't going home so soon. She doesn't usually go home very soon after school, though she doesn't stay out too late. Her mother doesn't like that.
The other kids moved out of her way, letting her get on one of the swings. She closed her eyes, and started to pump her legs, hearing the wind whistle by her. Swining made her feel as if she was flying above the clouds, far away from the pain that was on the ground; a world she is too small and too fragile to rise above.
When her eyes finally opened, and her legs were sore from pumping too much, it was already dark. She had lost track of time, and her mother would wonder if she had ran away! She had tried that once, but first; she didn't have any money or food to help her, and two; the police had turned her back into her mother, and she had been beaten. Her legs flew across the sidewalk, she could barely breath at her incredibly waisted atempt to make it home before her mother got too worked up. As she approached her old house, she could here her mother screeming her name from the doorway, completely drunk. She clenched an empty beer bottle in her hands. The small girl walked up the steps to her fate, unable to escape it.
"Anne! Where have ya been, baby? Momma worrys 'bout'y." Her mother said, her face going from anger to worry to sorrow, almsot all her words slurring together. Her final emotion was that of outrage, and the small girl--Anne--cowarded back in fear. "Get up these steps 'ght now!" Her drunken mother screamed, and the jogger across the street and the person who was walking their dog crossed the street to the other side. Anne walked up the steps, her mother now gripping her by the arms, as tight as it could get, and dragging her into the house.
The screams were ear-drum shattering, yet the neighbors just closed their blinds, and turned their tv up. They were use to this sort of thing, though none of them expected what was happening. The mother was killing the poor child; abusing her little daughter to death. Too bad the neighbors were too late when they realized, Anne was dead by morning.
The police found her mother passed out on the couch, her arm and beer bottle stained with blood. The beer bottle was broken and jagged. Anne's lifeless body layed on the ground infront of the couch, a small smile on her pale face, a tear dried to her cheek. There was blood running from a cut on her forehead, the back of her head, and her arms. Her body layed in a large pool of blood.
Even though it was too late, the ambulance put her pale body onto a bed, and covered her with a thick white sheet, though her blood soaked threw at places. The police had hand-cuffed the mother, and she was now crying--no, screaming while tears ran down her face--as she was hauled to the police car. She tryed running to her dead daughter's body, but the police man wouldn't let her.
"I didn't mean to! I really didn't! ANNE! I'M SORRY!" She screamed, loudly, while crying and trying to run to the little girl's corpse. She was pushed ruffley into the back of the police's car, as the ambulance sped away from the scene of the crime.
A week later Anne's mother is in prison, still crying over her little girl's death, to the irritation of the country. Yes, Anne's story was broadcasted nation-wide, as a example of child abuse.
Anne's teachers and some of her classmates gathered around a polished stone in the middle of a graveyard. Her english teacher was crying, and the principal was holding two crying children to his sides. Her grave was under a shady tree, and her name was carved into it. 'Anne Maria Drummon; a broken heart the worl forgot.' The many different colored flowers almost blacked out the last of the engraving, telling the date she died.
Though many were crying down the hill at the little rock with the flowers and the name of Anne, there was a small girl with dirty blonde hair and a dirty dress standing on the top of the hill, smiling and laughing with a group of other kids. They all had ragged clothing, and tears dryed to their cheeks. The group dressed in black started up the hill. They didn't stop at the sight of the little girl playing anf laughing with her new friends, for they didn't see her, or her friends. They were mere spirits of the unfortunate children killed by abusive familys; concrete angels.
 MewLettuceRush · Wed Nov 11, 2009 @ 03:09am · 1 Comments |
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