Hey guys, I wish this were an update of Project GEH instead of some crappy little story. But I was feeling down the other day and started writing it. For those of you who would like to know, I'm the person telling the story. It's not complete, but I got lazy. It's all true in here. So . . . yeah . . . maybe I'll replace it with the full copy if I ever finish it. By the way, it has insight to my life. I don't share this stuff with anyone. I'll probably regret it later, but whatever. Rage. Red. I'm all blinded by it. It's the moments when I get angry. I have much anger inside me, though I'm not entirely sure where it comes from; it could be many things . . . My childhood, my life as it is now, the things that made my childhood dark, or the secrets that my family keeps from me. As a kid, I always thought the world was my canvas, my hands were the paint, and I could make anything out of it that I wanted to. My world was entirely white, the color of pure, the color of innocence. The family I knew was straight, right . . . normal. Everything in my life was right in the world. I was happy. It is a widely known fact that the color white cannot last forever. Not in most cases of it at least. A child must grow up, sometimes faster than what's wanted, and it can't be helped. When I think of a child, I think of white. They have a canvas in front of them, just as I did when I was little. Other people can paint on this canvas too, they can help the child make a picture, make out their world, set deep brush strokes that will last forever, no matter how much they may fade, the traces of their paint will sit there forever and on. As a kid, I let everyone paint my canvas for me. I almost never touched it. I was an only child with three cousins, my parents, my aunts, and soon enough, one of my aunt's boyfriends and his son. The color red was never particularly one of my favorites, I was always a fan of pink – a whiter red, but the base color itself was something I would have liked to have kept off of my painting. Even today, as I sit here and write this, the color red is being splashed everywhere, all different kinds of shades of it, all different depths and textures of it. Ah . . . but we have to focus on the first reds of my life, the ones I could only wish now were pink. Up until the age of five or six, my canvas was made of the bright colors painted by all of my family, maybe a darker one or two from the loss of family members, but they were no matter; I was too young to know them so their loss was of little to no consequence. My world was made of bright colors, and I was happy – then again, I was always a happy kid. Around the time I was six, maybe five (it's hard to remember the beginning of it all), my aunt got a new boyfriend. At the time, I didn't know that each one of her four kids, Everette, Christina, Gabriel, and Ricky had different dads. Everette's dad was the one I saw the most, and Christina and Gabriel always called him dad, so I figured they all have the same one. To my parents, my aunt getting a new boyfriend was nothing new. I was excited when they came, my new 'cousin' Justin and his dad. Gabriel and I both. It's easy to remember that day . . . A bright, warm afternoon, a good day for meeting new people. Gabe and I were excited to meet our new family, and when they came, we were having so much fun while they got acquainted with my parents and my other aunt. We showed off, did the things that kids did . . . I regret that time, every day of my life now. If that day, I would have stayed in my room playing a video game, nothing would have happened, I would have been safe. Still pure, my canvas still white. But I was a cheerleader, a dancer; I knew how to work it, I knew how to smile, how to be radiant, how to make an entrance and leave an impression that just blew the mind. I was a cute kid. These are the things that I regret. Thinking back on it, this entire brush stroke could be the source of my anger. But why? Today, I'm over it, I'm alright with the red my childhood came with. Was it a price I had to pay for having such a wonderful canvas when all around me, there were paintings with only the color red and that was all? Maybe. Being a good kid only paid off sometimes. Being a cute kid paid off sometimes. These things . . . they only paid off sometimes. Holding my tongue, keeping quiet, blending into a facade of myself, at such a young age . . . it was pretty talented of me. My mom said so, my dad said so. “How could you hide something like this for so long?” Nine years? No way, nine years isn't that long. It's the blink of an eye for Time, that which goes on forever. On Time's scale, only seconds passed by before I cracked. But wait . . . did I cover the other sources of my anger? The ones that are possible anyway . . . No. I didn't. But . . . some already know what kind of life I lead, what kind of family I really have. My anger, for most people, is justifiable – but that's only by other people. Other people justify my anger. My anger – not theirs, but an anger that could be taken out on them just as well as anyone else. What makes them so special as to be protected from my wrath? Because they defend me? “You have to understand her childhood household.” “If only you were there when she was a kid.” “When you keep something inside of you all of your life, you can't say you wouldn't be angry.” No. I don't need their defense, I'm perfectly capable of defending myself just fine. I might fail at it, but what I say is the best I can do. And, if all else fails, there's always violence. If I have anything, I have violence. My constant companion for the last eight years of my life. You won't believe me? Ask the mirror in my bathroom, ask the bed board in my room, ask the wall, my aunt's chair, the desk, the fridge with two knives in it, the window at my old house, my uncle's leg, my cousin's face. Ask my arm, my legs, my neck, my right kidney, the remnants of bruises on my dad's arms, my mom's face, the scars left behind from the time when I was close to the blade . . . Do you get it? Well . . . maybe not all of that was out of anger, but anger was a component in some form, shape, and way. A common joke of my classmates from all over the school was that I was an aggressive person. Everyone knew it, no one was afraid to say it, not even to my face. For a little while, mind you, it was funny, I thought it was, so I went along with it. At the time I thought “What harm could it do if it wasn't true?”, but that was only true until one day in the seventh grade. Before I go on about that, I would like to point out that I've never been afraid to hurt another person that wouldn't really matter me in the future – hell, I've never been afraid of hurting a person in general. Physically speaking, of course; I'm not heartless. But if I really had to, I wouldn't be afraid to hit another person, to shoot another person, and eventually it would borderline not being scared to kill another person. A strange thing, to know someone's life is in your hands. But I'm getting off track. This one day, a girl named Jessica pushed me over the edge. Before that point, she had made my life a living hell. She had done all sorts of horrible things to me, and everyone knew it too, but no one said anything about it because they all thought that I either deserved it or that we were just playing around. We weren't playing around and frankly, I didn't deserve the hell she gave me. To this day, because we still go to school together, I like to make myself believe that she was the one who deserved what I did to her. It's very twisted of me, but it's the way I work sometimes. The stroke of paint she left on my painting wasn't very long and it wasn't a very deep red, but the color stands out even amongst the brightest of them. - - - - I've always thought of the seventh grade as the turning point of my personality, the permanent change that would last forever. I decided that I wouldn't be pushed around by anyone, that I wouldn't take shit from anyone, I would finally be my own person and do what I wanted. This didn't just apply in school, but in the outside world as well, and my relationship with my parents fell under this category too. I learned to steal my paintbrush back. It was my brush. Mine. My mom has always told me I was the good kid, the one who didn't go out and be a whore or get wasted or have sex with every person I saw. I took this to heart – I am that person, and I'm proud of that. Unfortunately, for every virtue, there's a vice; hence my anger. When I was just a few years younger, I always used to think my anger was normal, the way it manifested physically, anyway. The fact that I saw red never bothered me, not then, I had met many people who said they were easily angered too, so I was alright with it. It didn't occur to me that it could be serious, that anyone else could be hurt by it. Sometimes, I even used to think it was something to brag about; maybe not in an I'm-proud-of-it-way, but in a way that showed I was special at least somehow. That was always another thing, thinking my anger made me special. A strange thought, I know, but it really used to bother me that there was nothing unique about me, that there was nothing special about me. I know that I was a combination of a dancer and a cheerleader, but seeing as I believed these two activities were apart of why what happened to me, they just made me feel . . . not good about myself. Then again, that's not to say my anger did either, but it was . . . I never saw anyone get angry the way I did, that meant something to me, no matter how twisted it may have been. You can tell me what you think. It was a bit of a rant, but it's better than breaking stuff. c:
I really liked it... A lot... o-o I don't know why... But all of the talk of your life being a canvas - your dislike of the color red, and your "canvas" being painted with red, the color you despise the most - being a huge metaphor here, for all the bad things that have happened in your life. I don't know how to explain it really...But, you're such a brilliant writer, Saxxy. c: Less than three.
Yeah, the canvas and colors were great metaphors. And now I wonder who this Jessica is and why I've never heard of her and what exactly did she do and what exactly did you do. -_- But I'm glad that you decided to write instead of break.
For those who care or are interested, I updated this. Not much, but meh. Still not done with it yet, everything new is after the dotted line.
