Echodante's Blog

the hated english story

September 24, 2009 at 11:01 pm (stories)

well i love it but my teacher didnt

Nobody ever suspects the good girl. The happy girl who never does anything wrong, who never tries to hurt anybody, who tries to help everyone she can. Yeah right. In movies, maybe. But maybe that’s why they blame me. They suspect the good girl because everyoneelse trusts her. I guess it makes sense. I mean could the good girl really be hidingsomething behind that sweet helpful smile? But I’m not hiding anything. Well nothing bad,nothing sinister. I might be hiding myself from the world, but in a world as cruel andunloving as this, it takes a brave soul to show who she really is. It’s just so much
easier to hide behind the smiles, to laugh at the thought of fear. When deep down inside you’re shaking with it. Fear of what? The dark shadows? Or of death? Or are you really scared of living, of being yourself and stepping out of the shadows.

These were my thoughts as I sat locked in my cell. What did I do this time? I’m not really sure. I don’t know what I did or even if I did anything at all to deserve this punishment, this pain. And what is pain? Pain, sadness, suffering. Those words are used so freely these days. Is it worse to be living like this? Or is it worse to watch someone else live and suffer and then eventually die in my place?

No. it would be more painful to be forced to watch someone else in this pain, the sadness would be overwhelming. I’d rather it be me. But for them to stop, to leave me be, I would give almost anything. If only they didn’t want something I can’t give them: perfection. I try, no doubt I try but something good is never good enough. Perfection is everything. Perfection is nothing. Perfection. It is a mythical concept that is more widely believed in than ghosts and aliens, but with even less proof of existence.

What scares me most is not pain or perfection. Not shadows. Not even fear itself. What scares me is that the people inflicting this pain are the ones I love. The ones who are supposed to love me. But I am unloved because I didn’t, couldn’t, can’t catch that ghost that is perfection.

And so I sit here, and cry.

I hear them come now, to question me. I know that I am not a murderer but I don’t know if I can convince them of my innocence. The tears slide down my face, dissolving my words like acid. How do I convince them it wasn’t me without words? Why do I have to prove my innocence anyway? Shouldn’t it be “Innocent until proven guilty”, not “Innocent until blamed”? Shouldn’t it be evidence, not opinion?

What does it matter now they are wrong? That he is wrong. He should know I didn’t, wouldn’t, couldn’t. Yet still he accuses me using his fabricated evidence. My own husband, my supposed true love, accusing me of murder. I’m not sure why but without my own proof, his lies become the truth. So do I accept it or not? Do I hide or do I fight? Hide or step out of my cage and fight with all my soul.

I was never a perfect person, never a perfect wife or mother. But I loved my husband and my daughter, my only child. After only 2 years my baby girl was ripped away from me. Killed. Murdered. My child, murdered. By who, I cannot imagine. But; as if a higher power decided that to lose my darling baby was not enough; they claim I filled the role. Now everything is lost. My child, my husband, my pride and dignity. Washed away in a flood of tears. My soul is too broken, my spirit too weak. I cannot fight anymore.

“Guilty.”

I used to feel beautiful before all this. I would see myself in the mirror and smile at my reflection. But now all I see is my own sadness reflected in the deep blue eyes of an ugly, empty shell. That is all that’s left of me. I’m no longer me. I am really trapped deep inside, in a dark room with no doors or windows. I used to feel beautiful. I used to feel. It is in this safe bomb shelter that I slowly suffocate. In a room built to cage my soul. I suffocate.