She scrawled her letter to no one in particular quickly. A bitter taste was rising in the back of her mouth; one that you'd taste after running too long while you had a sore throat. Ignoring the soapy taste now filling her mouth and throat, she read over her words. She was careful not to miss a single letter.
Time after time, you abuse my trust. You take advantage of the fact that I am always the one to apologize, that I never blame you, and that I feel guilty whenever you blame yourself.
Time after time, you take advantage of my willingness to forgive, to turn my head, to stand up and walk it off. You take advantage of my weaknesses, and my dependence on others.
A child who cannot stand up for themselves, becomes an adult who will not stand up for anything.
Stop making me feel like I'm not worth standing up for.
She felt a knot forming in her chest. It burned with anger, and hatred. Not for anyone in particular, but for everyone who had hurt her like this in the past four years. "Best years of our lives, my ass," she mused. The knot was still there though, and the girl felt a wave of violence rush through her.
She stared at the wall. The smooth plaster and it's undeserved perfection mocked her. She would have liked very much to put her fist through the pretty paint and plaster. Then another, then another until there was nothing left of the wall that sat in front of her.
She breathed heavily and thought it over. Punching the wall wasn't worth it in the end. She'd need to explain to her family why the wall was in shambles. Then there would be any medical costs if she damaged her hand, and knowing her family, she'd have to fix it.
It was the needless explanations that she didn't want to deal with. A chorus of "what's wrongs" and "are you okays" that weren't worth dealing with. "Nothing" would be a lie, and there was nothing to explain. She could imagine the conversation now.
"Honey. What happened?" her mother would ask, and there would be concern in her voice with a twinge of irritation.
"I'm angry, so I punched the wall. What's it look like, mom?" The reply would be curt, eyes starting to well up with tears.
"What are you angry about?" would be what she said, but what her mother would really mean is, "You're only a teenager, you don't have any reason I can deem valid to be angry or depressed, so what the hell is your problem?"
"Everything." One word, and the conversation would take two possible turns. Choice A) her mother would give up, drop the subject, tell her to clean up, then leave. Choice B) the argument would start. The argument was the same every time, the words were different, but the point was perpetually driven. You're too young to have any problems. Get over yourself.
The thought of this made her angrier. She felt the knot in her chest drop and tighten, growing the more and more she thought about it. She wanted to yell, to scream, to tear down the walls around her. But her voice caught in her throat and her previous logic kept her still.
She tore the paper she had written her letters to no one on. Tore it, crumbled it, ripped it, chewed pieces of it.
It wasn't the hard, perfect plaster, but it was enough to loosen the knot.
