Turning Point by Alanoud Zouman

Posted on December 25, 2011 by

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This is the story of how I escaped. How I escaped in a metaphor probably so cliché you’d know the ending. I walked a steady dark, gloomy road, it ended with three and I went right. My right was my point of turning because dark clouds formed above me and rained what seemed to be never ending droplets. Slowly I began losing what I am I lost everything for I don’t know what I have.

My tale begins on a cloudy day like so; I stand staring at the crowd in front of me. My hair barely holding its way up in it’s over exaggerated bun; it was tight as it tightly pulled on my face. These eyes of mine were pulled like the darkest wings of a blackbird at its end, my eyelashes batted together in a visible manner whenever I dared blink from the sight ahead of me. Artificial color centered its way on my cheeks and lips. I look beautiful, but I never did. It seems as though the makers toyed with me too much for I don’t recognize my face anymore.

At first I believed it was only me on this small stage, but other characters began to fill in, every single one with a frown within their eyes but with smiles that pulled their lips with force. Only we could read each other, the crowd were outsiders, never comprehending.

I dared not look up to see he who held my strings. The sight only made me turn with fear, and on this stage, fear was the single member that gazed straight into your eyes, saying nothing, but making you doubt your mere existence at that moment.

On the count of three I could feel my arms moving in a way and my legs the other. Humiliation ate me up with the second. I clapped and danced like the cheerful person I am thought to be. And right in that moment I snapped, I declared my sorrow I declared my desperation and in that moment I lost everything.

With my shaky and rather fragile strength I tried to defy the strings that played me. I took off my eyes with glass, and so I can no longer see the worse of this, my eyes shall no longer bear the sight of mistreatment from him or others for I no longer see.

My ears have been scratched off and I won’t listen to words of falsehood once more that bleed ouy lies. Never will I listen to the mocking laughs of others for I no longer hear.

I took off my nose, my center of smell, and with that I hope not to bear the scent that has me spinning in circles anymore but nor do I smell the beautiful aroma of flowers or the ocean, for whenever I gain I lose, and I no longer smell.

I tore off my tongue so it wouldn’t dance its way out to speak of words that turn against me like a frightened child lost from their mother. I cannot defend for I am weak and I no longer speak.

My skin gets scraped off slowly as I begin to lose the sight of bruises and fingerprints that stamped their way onto my heart. I don’t feel nor will I ever.

I cut off my strings for I am no longer bound to anyone but myself. And I felt myself being wrapped in silk, my former self finally going to rest.

Some people turn their depression into the most beautiful form of art that aches the heart, shakes the soul and brings tears to the eyes. As for me I ran, always running never stopping, I can feel its beady eyes burn its way on my back as I can hear its laugh as it only gets closer. Depression and I began a never ending race. And I never stopped running and the constant self-loath that—even when not felt—is still felt and is there.

Even with my enemy running behind me, and even when my strong feeling of enmity towards the world is ever so growing I tried to build the perfect moment; I hate and I despise but I love so beautifully I cry. With my race and without my strings I am the missing puzzle piece that is of importance somehow but never fitting always lost and confused.

A perfect feeling shatters into pieces.

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