Leigh Gilholm Fisher
Age Rating: 10 +
An eleven year old girl lies in her bed. She wanted to sleep, but sleep couldn't come. She looked much older than she really was. And her personality reflected the pains in her past. She didn't let pain bother her. Weather she was torn apart and covered in blood, or lost the final race in that track season. She didn't cry when all of these things happened. She stood strong. Dejection had become a natural emotion for her. She was often disappointed and lied to. She stopped caring about such mundane things. She found a goal and focus on it. She didn't let other happy or painful emotions. She was what most would call strong; untouchable. She never let a tear fall from her eyes, she didn't let heartbreak wreck her for months, she didn't even cry when a best friend died. She stood, she ran, she didn't let the pain catch her. Glass, knives, and claws, they all cut her. Yet she never let the blood shed slow her down. She kept running, and didn't let the crimson path of blood she left bother her. She kept going she kept running. Not the type to crack like brittle glass, right? Wrong. Listen to her story, she may not live to tell another.
She lie in her bed waiting for sleep to come. It wouldn't come and take her away to a world of dreams. She listened to the angry voices. She tried to hold tears back. Her heart was aching. She wished a helping hand would reach out to her. Her friends were merely pixels on the screen. Can pixels on the screen really give someone a will to live? She didn't know. Yet, she tried to find light within the friends she met through the pixels on the screen. The voices cut into her armor less soul. She heard them yelling. Does she stand? Does she try to stop them from fighting? No, She's too afraid. She finally overcame her stage fright, yet she still is held prisoner to the angry voices of her parents.
She wished her cat would come and comfort her. She wishes, she hopes, and knows it won't come to any avail. She lies in the dark; counting the secrets of her heart. She wished her hear wasn't reduced to cracked glass every time their words came cutting through the night. Her heart is like repaired glass. Hardly ready to be placed on the maintain after being knocked over again. The glass is glued together once again and left to set. It's knocked over again before the glue sets. That is her heart. Her heart is made of glass. Blood, dejection, and disappointment can't crack the glass. The words of her parents crack the glass to the very corners of her heart.
After a loud yell, she watches her father storm out of the bed room. He whips open the front door and slams it closed. She listens to the car start. She listens to the rain beating her window. She reaches out to pick up her cell phone to see what time it is. She sees it's seven AM. She knows it's time to take a shower and start school. She stands on unsteady legs. She walks the path that repeats itself every passing day. She finished school, cooks dinner, sings on line, and goes to bed. She drifts into a painful and cold sleep waiting to be awoken by yelling words again. She closes her eyes hopping that the cracked glass of her heart will hold through another rainy morning.