Snap - Writers Forum

Spazola · 09-21-2006, 10:43 PM

Snap (a short story)

I am mindless.

Snap, snap, snap. The rubber band against my wrist. I'm thinking about everything, yet I'm not thinking at all. I'm too blinded to think. Blinded by my thoughts.

It burns, the skin around the rubber band is turning pink. No, it doesn't hurt. I'm not one of those people who hurts themselves for fun. I don't like pain. In fact, I'm fairly sensitive to small cuts and bruises--more like a small child than a teenager.

Snap, snap, snap. I like the sound. I like how snapping this little orange rubber band serves as my substitute.

No, I'm not addicted to drugs. I'm not an alcoholic. I'm not a cutter. I don't smoke.

I don't cry...I snap.

Snap, snap, snap.

The last time I cried, it lasted seven hours. I was ten years old.

It was summer. I found refuge from the heat under the tall trees in the small set of woods behind my house. Peter was with me. He was eleven, maybe twelve years old. Enough ahead of me to be the leader, but young enough to play with me.

Then came The Conversation.

"I just want to touch..." he spoke the words in a whisper.

"No...I wouldn't like that. No."

"Ten seconds. Please...you can even count. Missisippi seconds, though."

"I said no!" I could feel the tears welling up, but I held them back.

"I won't be your friend anymore."

That hit me hard enough to make me stagger, but not break. I had no other friends...but how far was I willing to go to keep the one I had? Not that far.

"N-no...I don't think so."

"If you don't let me, I'll tell your parents that you did."

My weak spot. Questions had been flooding my mind for about a year by then. Does Daddy hate me? Does Mommy wish I had never been born?

They'll think I'm a slut. They'll hate me.

Just telling the story I'm having to snap. Snap, snap, snap.

After allowing myself to be mildly molested by my at the time best friend, I walked home, crawled into bed, and I cried.

Seven hours straight. I didn't stop once. This was all my fault. I'm a whore. I felt dirty. Like mud. That's all I was; I big slab of mud. The guilt was killing me. I wished it would hurry up and finish.

Crying didn't help. My tears didn't wash away the shame. That's when I realized that, no matter how often adults say otherwise, it is NOT okay to cry.

Go ahead, call me a slut.Call me an emo. Most likely, that's exactly what I am.

Snap, snap, snap....

christine l golden · 09-23-2006, 02:43 PM

not sure what to think about this one...sounds like an emotional scar that runs so deep....like a scab that won't heal because you keep picking at it....
both physical and pyschological abuse was present in the situation that you are describing, apparently from the friend and possibly from the parents (who the character most likely did not have a close enough connection with since she could not talk to them about what happened---sad, really sad)
rubber bands are used alot by those with addictive behaviors, it's supposed to cause a little pain and remind them not to indulge in whatever compulsion that consumes them....in this case however, it does not seem to be working for the character- for she continually obsesses over a past incident for which she was too young and naive to have made good decisions over....yes, you indicate that she feels that it is wrong- but fear of losing what she had over losing what she thinks she has is greater than her concern over right vs wrong...(she would rather do something wrong than lose a friend)
is this the entire story??? It feels incomplete...more like an intro than a complete story, or is this some work in progress?
Not sure what kind of market you are gearing towards-what are your plans for this piece???