(no subject)
Whitley Zandler
Dr. Turner
Creative Writing
19 October 2008
Title
Quick. Imagine a girl with big brown eyes, the deceptive kind with gold threading through the irises. The kind that you could maybe stare at for awhile. A girl with dark brown hair that falls straight from her head, that shakes slightly with her movements, hanging just below her over-developed breasts. This girl has an all-over tan, like she might have spent her summer sun-bathing naked in her backyard, if she didn't live across the street from a grocery store. She is slender in a way that suggests her body is much older than the rest of her. She saunters with the kind of desperate confidence that only reeks of insecurity.
The reality is, this girl is the epitome of what every mother hopes their daughter never turns out to be. The bright red lines on her arms-something her father pretends not to see on the occasional weekend she visits. The cigarette hanging loosely from her swollen lips would even be an acceptable trade for what is to come. Because, it, honestly, is that bad.
This girl, this nightmare, she could be the inspiration for Lifetime movies; she could be the reason behind pamphlets or books, all pointing towards the same piece of advice: “Teenage Daughters and What NOT to Do.”
She gets grounded for a month when she is 11 for slitting her wrists with a pair of fabric scissors, succeeding only in accruing an addiction that lasts until she is 19. At 12 she gets high for the first time with her best friend's sister and an 18 year old from the Army they met in the Wendy's parking lot. This girl is the one that your parents wouldn't let you hang out with when you were that age. The one even the teachers heard rumors about.
Right now, this girl is fourteen and she is in a park. She might grow up to be a writer, or a teacher, or a doctor but right now she is focused solely on destroying herself. She is pretending to enjoy the beer in her hands, the stranger who supplied it's mouth on her neck; she is pretending to enjoy the feel of leaves in her hair and his hands moving ever-so-slightly to the button on her jeans. Besides making official her high-school reputation, besides throwing away her virtue, and even besides changing the way her father will look at her from now on, what she is really doing, is conducting a test on humanity.
Maybe though, maybe she is just seeing how far she could carry herself away. Maybe she is just expecting someone to save her. It could be a fatal flaw of hers, if you discount everything else you've learned. As this stranger, this boy who's name she can't quite remember, breathes against her cheek, she's thinking she probably shouldn't be doing this. That, maybe, she shouldn't have taken this so far. This nightmare has just turned into everything we fear from female adolescence. But in reality, she is just another teenage slut.
And what she is thinking, now, as he pulls away from her and she struggles to put on her pants, is that no one is going to be there to protect her. This ungrateful little slut is thinking she can't count on anyone but herself. And maybe, learning that tiny little fact, even the way she does, maybe this fourteen year old nightmare saves herself.
Dr. Turner
Creative Writing
19 October 2008
Title
Quick. Imagine a girl with big brown eyes, the deceptive kind with gold threading through the irises. The kind that you could maybe stare at for awhile. A girl with dark brown hair that falls straight from her head, that shakes slightly with her movements, hanging just below her over-developed breasts. This girl has an all-over tan, like she might have spent her summer sun-bathing naked in her backyard, if she didn't live across the street from a grocery store. She is slender in a way that suggests her body is much older than the rest of her. She saunters with the kind of desperate confidence that only reeks of insecurity.
The reality is, this girl is the epitome of what every mother hopes their daughter never turns out to be. The bright red lines on her arms-something her father pretends not to see on the occasional weekend she visits. The cigarette hanging loosely from her swollen lips would even be an acceptable trade for what is to come. Because, it, honestly, is that bad.
This girl, this nightmare, she could be the inspiration for Lifetime movies; she could be the reason behind pamphlets or books, all pointing towards the same piece of advice: “Teenage Daughters and What NOT to Do.”
She gets grounded for a month when she is 11 for slitting her wrists with a pair of fabric scissors, succeeding only in accruing an addiction that lasts until she is 19. At 12 she gets high for the first time with her best friend's sister and an 18 year old from the Army they met in the Wendy's parking lot. This girl is the one that your parents wouldn't let you hang out with when you were that age. The one even the teachers heard rumors about.
Right now, this girl is fourteen and she is in a park. She might grow up to be a writer, or a teacher, or a doctor but right now she is focused solely on destroying herself. She is pretending to enjoy the beer in her hands, the stranger who supplied it's mouth on her neck; she is pretending to enjoy the feel of leaves in her hair and his hands moving ever-so-slightly to the button on her jeans. Besides making official her high-school reputation, besides throwing away her virtue, and even besides changing the way her father will look at her from now on, what she is really doing, is conducting a test on humanity.
Maybe though, maybe she is just seeing how far she could carry herself away. Maybe she is just expecting someone to save her. It could be a fatal flaw of hers, if you discount everything else you've learned. As this stranger, this boy who's name she can't quite remember, breathes against her cheek, she's thinking she probably shouldn't be doing this. That, maybe, she shouldn't have taken this so far. This nightmare has just turned into everything we fear from female adolescence. But in reality, she is just another teenage slut.
And what she is thinking, now, as he pulls away from her and she struggles to put on her pants, is that no one is going to be there to protect her. This ungrateful little slut is thinking she can't count on anyone but herself. And maybe, learning that tiny little fact, even the way she does, maybe this fourteen year old nightmare saves herself.