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In The Eyes Of My SonIn The Eyes Of My Son by Yumislover99
"The more you think about it, the more you're going to want it. So why don't you just let me...satisfy the need?" purred a voice from behind the woman. Anya ignored the bubbling temptation to say something vile to this man who called himself her husband, but she kept her mouth shut and turned instead to the man, her eyes down at his feet as he stepped forward and took hold of her arm. His fingers overlapped the painful bruises that were still throbbing from his last encounter with her body. All over she hurt, but she dared not to speak. More agony would only come from his actions that were already more than painful.
The more she thought about it...the more it hurt. The pain, the sorrow, the mistake that she couldn't have prevented. Running when she had wanted was no longer an option. She was cut off from relations, not able to see the family that now lived more than a thousand miles away (the exact location, she couldn't be sure). The only person she could turn to for comfort was the o
Watching those around me, I feel as if they all have a set of painted colors on a canvas, one for each part of their life, all set together, uniformed. That they're all lines, circles and squares, arranged in some intricate way that makes them different in their own ways, but similar to those around them. I, on the other hand, feel like a canvas that has been painted in a hurry, in one simple swipe. Where the painter has placed a multitude of colors on her hand, then without any careful thought, pressed the paint daubed hand against the rough surface of the canvas, and smeared it about. I feel as if the painter had no care as to whether purples sat between oranges and yellows, while the reds fought for dominance against the cooler greens and blues, that she didn't care how much black seemed to overshadow the whole painting, and drive out the faint veins of white that fought frantically to make an impression. I feel that all of this within the painting makes me into who, and what I am. I am my mother's child, but not. I am someone that follows no specific mold that society has set for young women. I am a painter. I am simply a blur, hidden within a world that has come to a standstill with accepting something of difference. I am myself.|
Yes, I wrote that. Surprised? I was myself.