Writing about my trauma, in a healthy literature style
I used to like the silence, it used to be comforting to me. Just laying in my room, looking up at the ceiling, the only sounds coming from the old bush outside, maybe the sound of my parents arguing. But now, I can't stand it. If it's too silent, I start thinking about what I was forced to endure. I can feel the horrors of my past slowly wrapping their arms around me, their past stories whispering in my ear, the familiar sense of dread softly caressing my face as I stand there. I can feel my father's arms wrapping around my chest, feeling something I didn't develop fast enough for him to take advantage of. I can feel Spencer slowly wrapping his arms over my eyes, making sure I can't see his friends slowly wrapping each of their arms around my limbs. I can feel the bloodied hands of the people I failed to keep close to me slowly wrapping around my neck, a sense of abandonment that suffocates me whenever I think about it. I look down at my hands, seeing the dark red ...