Creative fun in
the palm of your hand.
Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/1367531
by Molita
Rated: 13+ · Non-fiction · Personal · #1367531
A little snip of a book I plan to write in the future.
"And this is my room," he said with the slightest hint of excitement in his tiny voice.
As I was standing in the doorway, my eyes shot towards the neatly made bed in the center of the room.
It was as if the bed was strategically placed there like a vibrantly colored center piece at a dinner table.
I crept softly into the room while trying my best not to give off the illusion of fear.
I want him to know I can be a woman; strong, fearless, and smart like my mother.
(She has no idea.)
I step on to the caramel colored carpet while leaving my small, adolescent footsteps trailing behind.
The room was cold and unwelcoming, like a motel room. There was nothing warm about it. No pictures on the walls. No rugs on the floor. Just dirty carpet and a single, cheap bed where I was sure other young girls had slept.
Where the hell am I?
The room stinks of old cigarettes and wine mixed with cat urine and ammonia.
Such a vile smell; it burned up through my nostrils and I choked down the taste.
It seemed as though the carpet had absorbed every stench it's ever come across in its lifetime like a sponge soaking in hot, soiled water.
I walked in circles like a lost child around the room.
There was nothing else I knew to do.
Circles were the only thing to waste away more time while he sullenly stood in the shadows watching me like a vulture.
I'm already dead, and he knows it.
He stays hidden so he can observe me.
Study me.
Know me.
See how my body moves.
Then I stop, suddenly, next to the bed.
The bed that looks more and more like a coffin as each minute passes.
Then he creeps...
He slithers up next to me ever so quietly; quieter than any fish gliding through any sea.
In the quickest movement, he wrapped his arms around me.
His arms were like pythons synched around my tiny, tight body.
He held me like a lover, not a child, and squeezed me tight like he meant it.
The trap was set.
He towered above me like a skyscraper, but never once did I look up into his smoky eyes.
I could feel his hot breath roll down the back of my neck and seep into my spine making my body shake in repulsion.
My head is hung low, but not from defeat.
I need to think now.  Make a game plan; a play by play scenario in my head. Keep the control.
I stand and stare down at his cheap, brown leather shoes.
I turn into a plastic doll.
My eyes are glass, breathing has ceased, and I can truly feel the feeling of knowing you're about to die.
My mind is not racing.
I think of nothing and no one.
In my head, all I can see are four white walls.
I am mentally trapped in a room that I have made for myself.
I do not see anything or anyone.
"You are so adorable," he whispered.
My mind then cut back to his brown JC Penny shoes.
Then, with his firm, cold hands he took my head, causing friction against my soft face, and kissed it gently.
And in those same aged hands held my fate and all I could say to myself was,
"He doesn't look a thing like God."
I won't let this be how it ends.
"Take me home."
© Copyright 2007 Molita (molita at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/1367531