Instead || 2003-10-14 at 12:29 p.m.
Title: InsteadVersion: Version One, part one of one. Getting ideas out. Revisions to come later. Mostly style later.
About: This is so not a happy piece. I hate being your typical angsty teen, but I had to get this out. It's not just me sitting here going, "Gee, what can I write that'll freak normies out?" This is actually inspired by my true feelings. I know, it's dark, but I get so angry. I am tired of these old men acting like I am nothing but a piece of meat. I am constantly sexually harrassed by these men, and I was even abused by one. Needless to say, I am a bit angry. Happier entries coming soon, I promise. I am not normally this angsty, I just go through selfish phases, and need to work the anger out of my system. ^^
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"Hey, Brooke." She looked up at the sound of her name, but she didn't like who it was coming from. By reflex, her eyes fell upon his, and her breath caught in her throat. She'd always heard the expression, "blood ran cold", and she imagined that that's what was going on with her.
Those eyes haunted her constantly. More specifically, it was the look that they gave her. It was the look of a predator on the prowl, and she hated them. They seemed to be always watching her, always waiting for the moment that she was the weakest to strike.
"Hi," she mumbled very quietly, turning her eyes away the very moment she could. She wished for once she could be rude and just glare at him without saying a word, but she couldn't. She was too nice. She had always been too nice.
There were times she wanted to drop her broom and choke him. She was never a violent person, but those eyes drove her mad.
She would envision things she'd never thought of in her life. A switch blade was quite popular in those fantasies. She would see herself standing there sweeping the dirty floor, and he'd say her name. Instead of saying hi this time, she would close her eyes tightly and grit her teeth angrily, frustrated.
She'd reach into her work apron and bring the switchblade to the side of her face, feeling the cool metal of the handle. She'd hug her own head for a while, trying to calm herself down, but instinctively her finger would find the button that caused the knife to slide out. (Did they have buttons? She didn't know. She'd never handled one.)
The next thing she knew, she was imagining the cold steel blade against his throat, her hand in his hair. She'd be behind him, and she'd be angrier than she ever had been in her life. She never knew how she got there, because that was unimportant. What was important was the fact that she wanted to cut him. Maybe not kill him, but she wanted to hurt him as he did her.
For every time his eyes travelled along her body, she wanted to cut him. For every time he called her gorgeous, she wanted to cut him. For every time he followed her into the break room, she wanted to cut him.
And he would be a scape goat to. For every time another man had looked at her that way, she wanted to make him bleed. For everytime an old man with no teeth asked her for a kiss, she wanted to make him bleed. For every old man with no teeth that asked her to be his girl friend, she really wanted to make him bleed.
Instead, she said hi and continued to sweep.