My birth was a disaster in so many ways. The doctor, in a rush to free me from the restricting force of my mother’s uterus, damaged nerves pulling me out. My limbs are useless on my left side, but I’ve learned to get around and have adapted ways to care for myself.
It’s not the inability to move normally that bothers me though…
My face droops. It’s like looking into a fun house mirror when I look at myself. One side is perfection; flawless skin, cute nose, bright blue eye, and plump lips that form a gorgeous smile. The other side? Like a picture warped by heat, like a wax mold melted by a candle, like a perfect doll distorted by fire.
My speech comes out in slurred syllables that people have to strain to hear. I feel like my speech; so hard to understand that people turn away before they fully get me.
Mom hovers over me. I’m twenty-two years old, but she treats me like I’m a fragile vase perched on the edge of the counter. Too much movement and I’ll shatter the moment I hit the ground. The huge settlement with the hospital means we live comfortably, extravagantly, if I’m honest. I could’ve gone to a good college, but mom put up such a fuss that I put it off. And then I just kept putting it off because that nagging voice in the back of my mind can’t help wondering if she’s right. Maybe I can’t be on my own, maybe I can’t take care of myself, maybe this whole thing is a big mistake. Maybe?
Dating isn’t an option for me either. I’ve seen the way guys look at me. Their faces always twist up before they can school their features, and that’s the nice ones. I’ve had more men laugh at me than I can count.
To be trapped in this body that doesn’t work is torture. One half of me is whole and the other half is this twisted mess that’ll never work right. I stopped being a person the moment they yanked me from my mother’s body.
I’m a broken piece. It doesn’t matter how beautiful the one half of me is, my melted features define me. I am that girl. That girl people pity or baby, but never love like a whole person.
Thanks. Lots of incomplete stories I’m writing.
Oh wow, I want to know more of her story…and I want her to realize that she IS beautiful, regardless of how broken she may be (or thinks she is).
There’s more to her story, but my story maker has been busted. I feel like I’ve written a number of profiles and no complete pieces lately.
I understand that, too. 🙂
Let’s all have happy story writing thoughts
Oh Cara, I knew a girl so much like this. I wish I knew what became of her. I have a lump in my throat now. You should write more of this story.
I’ve known someone like this as well. I can be honest and say I’ve felt this way on the inside even if my outside is okay. It’s all mental.
Send me happy writing thoughts!
I’ll sending them now. I understand what you mean. That mental is a bitch I’d like to slap.
Me too, sister.
Let me just say for someone who hasn’t experienced this themselves first hand, you’ve done a marvelous job capturing what it feels like to physically lose half yourself. Brava!
I’m sure there are nuances of the character I’m missing, but her voice is very strong and clear in my head.
I think you did a marvelous job and probably not a character you want to get too lost in anyway. Hard to get out of that one.
She’s almost as dark a spot as some of my scarier characters I’ve written. Hers is a pain I feel and understand to a degree and that can drag you down
Yes it can, once she’s rooted herself I don’t know if she can ever be gotten rid of. Maybe silenced here and there, but this one will always remain.
I agree. It is hard to stop those feelings.
Sad, but well written.
I find parts of this girl within myself. We are all a little broken in one way or another, eh?
Aren’t we? More then we realize