ride cloaked.

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See, that’s what the app is perfect for.

Sounds perfect Wahhhh, I don’t wanna

THE BLUE DRESS

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Written by Marina Winther

New York, NY 2017

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    Our girl had broken her left wrist.
    She made the choice.In the moment it was a shock to be realized later that she could think in such cold logic. Yet the tremors were there, and she shook - her hands unsteady within their binds. Our girl say alone in the dark space, knowing hours had passed due to the movement of a few rays of light crawling across the wooden floorboards through windows covered in craft paper. The doors had slammed shut with a condemning silence with the house some time ago.
     How could this happen when she was wearing her favorite blue dress? She laid awkwardly on the floor still attached to the chair, wrist snapped, face pressed into the splintered wood. She felt her blood flow in reverse as the tears flowed their way out her eyes. How could she be so naive? Maybe she deserved this for being so foolish to get herself into this situation in the first palce. Dumb enough to believe in the best side of people. He just seemed lovely - and sweet. Not knowing anyone in town… just moving to the area. He also compliment the hue of the blue against her skin.
     She huffed and squinted away the drops on her lashes as she began to force her snapped wrist of their bind. Her agitation was her only motivation at this point. Growing increasingly uncomfortable unable to breathe, unable to breathe in that dress. That fucking dress. Why was it even her favorite? It was too tight around her stomach, and pulled at her shoulders - itched her throat. Sure, she worse it on the best date of her life - but they got away. She wore it the day she got the job… that would lead her to battle addiction. She felt good in it because she listened to all the compliments it brought - but didn’t follow her instinct in that it was ill fitting and that she deep down didn’t like it at all. Besides, her favorite color was red.
    Our girl writhed her way out of the rest of the bindings. She had control again. Again? When had she ever had control?
     This will pass - This will pass - This will pass - was her never ending mantra. When did it ever pass? When will THIS pass? WILL it pass? The depression certainly never did. Her abusive ex boyfriend still haunted her. The job she got still caused her strife, and the addiction certainly wasn’t going anywhere. The best laid pans. She had always been powerless and her life was always dependent on the whims of others.
    She felt the pain in her wrist once more as the door slammed in return. This slam - sounded like a commencement.
    The air escaped her lungs as she warded off the train of events that led her into this house, this attic. They didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Our girl was naive - and all her naivete blurred through her mind composed of a lifetime of events that had led her there.
     Why had she even picked the blue dress? Right. The saleswoman said the red one wasn’t the right fit for her. Too nervous to speak her mind, she went with the blue one selected for her.
    She heard the footsteps coming up the stairs, and our girl rose to her feet.           Instinct.
    She had never thoroughly followed it before. What if she had?
    Logic was gone now. Her nerves were electrified. Blood was boiling. The tick in her eyebrow was there in force. Her cheeks were as hot as the tears running down them as she stood there, frozen, listening to the knob turn.
    Her Man stood there in the open doorway with his knife. The blade wider than his eyes. (Or were his eyes wider than the knife - seeing Our Girl standing there before him?) She erupted - grabbing the chair with her good hand, and with a might unknown flung it with a lunge at his knees.
    Control.
    He fell over, taking her down with him - the knife dropping to the side. He struck her head, bringing a familiar throbbing to her head - but she was heightened. Freedom. Delight. Our Girl felt the blow and absorbed it with a laugh. The pain didn’t pass (as nothing did) turning into electric shock surging through to her fingertips, the muscles in her legs throbbing to kick the man she slapped him in the face laughing.
     It was her fighting back and laughter that had Her Man frozen. Now he was the one frozen; He was the one out of control; his had been spent.
     Our Girl went from a slap to a punch - and his darting eyes led her own to see the knife in her timekeeping ray of light. She dove for the knife - turned and paused for a mere moment. A moment she relished.
     She picked up the chair again and slammed it into his face. The blood from his nose splayed onto the blue dress.
     Our Girl had all control.       Our Girl followed her instinct.
     She jumped onto his chest. She kicked him in the jaw. She used the knife. Conducted the knife into Her Man’s flesh. Her body surged and her mind was empty. Our Girl exuded all her unknown restrained strength, feeling the smile emerge as she did not let this pass. Present with every single calculated strike, the splays of blood continuing. Our Girl felt every bit her of body primed with an unknown energy that prickled and tingled throughout - ridding herself of the sins she had committed of not putting herself first.
     Release. Relief.          The ray of time was gone as Our Girl say on the floor, back to the mess she had made, eyes closed. Her breathing had one back to normal - but the aftershock of the sheer manic was still there. She had allowed herself to be unrestrained for the first time in her life.
    Our Girl finally had her red dress. 

personal shortstory fiction
wordsnquotes
Why does one begin to write? Because she feels misunderstood, I guess. Because it never comes out clearly enough when she tries to speak. Because she wants to rephrase the world, to take it in and give it back again differently, so that everything is used and nothing is lost. Because it’s something to do to pass the time until she is old enough to experience the things she writes about.