Loveless [Chapter 1]

Chapter 1: Story Night1

Part I: Joan’s Loveless Story2

It was night, it was raining, I was in my bed. I had my favorite jacket on, black and “Love is just a poison…” written on the back in blood red, hoodie on. The sorrow was covering my heart and soul. I almost felt out of breath, one knife in a hand, the other one bleeding. The pain was unstoppable, but satisfied. I liked it. I went to the bathroom, got some bandages and some medical water and I fixed the problem. How I know how to cure so well you might ask? Well, I’m not gonna say I’m new to this shit, ‘cause I’ll be laying. I look in the mirror. I see the face of shame, the shame I have after my big brother comes to my bedroom and leaves me in pain, in shame, naked, in tears. After he tells me that if I don’t shut up he will make my life miserable. I feel him in me, and I get disgusted with myself. I see my long, beautiful, smooth, bright, black hair; see to my chocolate brown eyes; touch my smooth, pale skin and look my body, the great curves I have. “You’re gorgeous!” People say to me “OMG! I wish I looked like you!” Some girls say. “What a babe!!” Some guys have said. Well, if I’m so pretty or gorgeous, why am I always crying for the same shit: love? I haven’t found any guy that truly loved me. I fall in love, but I always fell for the wrong one. I always end crying, in pain, used. I’m tired of it. I’ve dream of the day I met my true love, the right guy, my dark prince. Yeah, Dark Prince, everybody uses Blue Prince, it’s kind of old. I always dream of him…dark, long hair; tall, dark, handsome, a great person. But…dream’s just not enough…so…I’ll just wait…while I wait, I’ll do the thing that I most love in the whole world: poetry. Poetry it’s my escape from the real world, from the pain, from the sorrow, from the loveless. 3

Part II: Dean’s Loveless Story4

It was night, it was cold, but it wasn’t raining. I was in a corner of my bedroom floor, with my jacket on. In the back it said “Love is pure evil…” in dark red. I had the hoodie on. I was really depress. The pain, the suffering was very in my heart. It was trapping my soul. I felt…dead. The razor, laying in front of me, with blood in the floor, and a blanket, almost blood red, covering my arm. I hated the pain inside, loved the pain outside. I went to the mirror and looked myself. I saw the face of an accident. Has my mom always says when she comes home, drunk, what she says after she hits me, after she leaves me with my back, scars wide open, bleeding, ‘cause of the belt of my dad. I see the face of shame, the shame my dad leaves to me after he comes home, high, and abuse of me, after he leaves me completely ashamed, in my bed, naked. Shaking. Crying. I see the face of a coward, it’s what they both say after they both come from work and hit me. And I cry…I don’t know what to do. And I’m still waiting, for the one person that could understand me. That could love me, that won’t hit me. That won’t abuse me. I haven’t found her…I need that person, to hug me when I cry. To fight with me when my mom enters drunk at home. To help me punch my dad when he comes home, high. To be there for me…I need that person. But…while I wait…I’ll do the thing that I most to. Play guitar, make music. My escape. My path to happiness. Far from the real world, from the pain and shame. I turned my electric guitar on and I begin to play it. I play it loud. Crazy. But dark. My parents begin to yell at me at the door, telling me to turn it off. But I didn’t care. They mess up my life, I mess up theirs. 5

To be continue...