literature

Response to prompt #1.

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Literature Text

She just wanted to be normal…

But in her heart she felt, in her mind she knew that all she was - all she would ever be - was anything but.  

The first day she noticed, she was nine years old.  She was at home, leaned up against the wall, sitting on the bed in her room, and it was raining.  It’d been raining all day.  With a shaky hand, she turned the page of the book she’d been rereading, Roald Dahl’s Matilda, and tried to tune out the screaming coming from a few rooms over.  

"What do you mean, you don’t have any money!  You work eight hours a week, Ted!  How the fuck are we supposed to pay our electricity bill if we don’t have any money?!”

"I mean I don’t got no money, Linda!  The guys ‘n I were playin’ poker and I used the last of it for cigs!  Maybe if you got your ass off unemployment, we wouldn’t have this problem!”

Frustration and anger rose within her being, but she read on.  She was at the scene where Matilda was asking her father for a book.

"A book?" he said. "What d’you want a flaming book for?"

"To read, Daddy."

"What’s wrong with the telly, for heaven’s sake? We’ve got a lovely telly with a twelve-inch screen and now you come asking for a book! You’re getting spoiled, my girl!"


At least her family wasn’t the only one with skewed priorities, she thought to herself, even if “skewed priorities” was putting it nicely.  She made her free hand into a fist and clenched it hard, until her knuckles turned white and she felt her fingernails dig into her palms.  

Thunder rumbled in the distance.  It always stormed when they argued.

Nonetheless, she picked up where she’d left off.  

Nearly every weekday afternoon Matilda was left alone in the house. Her brother (five years older than her) went to school. Her father went to work and her mother went out playing bingo in a town eight miles away. Mrs. Wormwood was hooked on bingo and played it five afternoons a week. On the afternoon of the day when her father had refused to buy her a book, Matilda set out all by herself to walk to the public library in the village. When she arrived, she introduced herself to the librarian, Mrs. Phelps. She asked if she might sit awhile and read a book. Mrs. Phelps, slightly taken aback at the arrival of such a tiny girl unaccompanied by a parent, nevertheless told her she was very welcome.

"Where are the children’s books please?" Matilda asked.

"They’re over there on those lower shelves," Mrs Phelps told her. "Would you like me to help you find a nice one with lots of pictures in it?"

"No, thank you," Matilda said. "I’m sure I-“


"You know what?  Fuck you, Linda!  Get outta my house!"

The youth quietly set the book down, her petite body trembling.
"Maybe I will!  I’m sure you’d be real fuckin’ happy if I did!  Then you could fuck around and play poker with your friends, and live here with no electricity, do whatever the hell else!”

Six years.  Six years of hearing them tear each other down, beat each other; six years of growing up in the midst of their quarreling, her childhood lost to the drama and hatred of their decaying marriage.  

The house fell quiet.  For a moment, the only sound to be heard was that of the rain pounding against the roof’s shingles.  The thunder, once a distant rumbling, had crescendoed into something greater.

Then she could hear the sound of her father - for her mother’s footsteps were quick, poignant steps and not dull, thudding ones - walk over.

The sound of a smack resonated throughout the house, followed by the noise of something hitting the floor.

The child tensed, as if she herself had been struck.  Both of her hands balled into fists that gripped her bed’s sheets while she squeezed her eyes shut, trying to calm her quivering body.

They may have both had screwy families, but Matilda was stronger.  Matilda had power and wisdom.  She had nothing.

She had nothing but a dilapidated house and parents who hated each other and the raging elements outside.  No neighbors who cared enough to complain about noise levels.  No kindhearted teacher or friends.  There was no escape.

Eyes squeezed shut, the girl threw her head back and, at the top of her lungs, let out the loudest, most anguished scream she could manage.  She screamed and screamed, over the roaring thunder and crackling lightning, over the torrential downpour and sporadic light that flooded the world outside and lit the inside of her room. Then, with tears running down her cheeks, when her voice was hoarse, when she was gasping for air and could scream no more, she crumpled onto her bed and sobbed, before raising her right fist to strike the wall with all her remaining force.

There was a roar of thunder and a wicked crack of lightning.

Light flooded through once more.

Then, the lights flickered, grew dim, and went out.

And all was quiet.

And while she lay crying on her bed, the young girl couldn’t help but wonder if it was coincidental after all, that every time her parents argued, and that every time she felt so trapped and helpless, it stormed.

So, I’ve been looking through writing prompts on tumblr, followed a few blogs that have them, and I guess what I’ll do to get back into writing is do a few, short responses to them.

To anyone who reads these, feedback would be nice.  I know I have a lot of growing to do as a writer, so constructive criticism would be appreciated.  What I will not take are baseless attacks on my writing, and while I never turn down compliments, my only request is that if you do leave one, you mention what you think the story’s strong points were, and what needs improving.

Thank you for your time.

© 2014 - 2024 Nyatta-chan
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