Screaming – Creative Writing
“Natasha screamed. She knew the answer but she couldn’t pluck it from the sea of muddle that was her head. Slamming down her pen she agreed with herself that a break would be the best option. She made her way towards the kitchen. Their large family house is scattered with family photos, walking through the hall she stopped to look at one such picture, showing her family smiling and joyful, happy. A perfectionist – Natasha straightened the frame and continued, thinking about nothing much in particular. ”
The girl paused, took a deep breath and continued. “Downstairs her mother was in the kitchen, the telephone cradled between chin and shoulder. A glass lay on the counter. As Natasha entered her mum put down the phone, Natasha caught sight of the glass and stared at it. She scanned the room and immediately caught sight of the inevitable, a bottle of wine, nearly finished sat inconspicuously behind a cooking book by the stove. Natasha looked briefly at the bottle, and then left without saying a word. She was screaming again.
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In her head, but much louder than before, much louder than yesterday and far louder than last week. She felt like hitting herself for caring so much and when she reached her bedroom, cradling her head in one hand she did just that. Repeated thumps to her head, as if trying to push out painful memories or painful reality. Natasha was sure it would help. It was still only 6. 28. That to Natasha meant 32 minutes of antagonising waiting, because of course 7pm was by far the most favourite hour of the day. What if he’s late today? Held up in traffic?
Head throbbing, she perservered with her work to pass time. On finishing she could hear the sound of her mother walking up the stairs, talking to the family dog, Hercules. Immediately, as if by instinct Natasha braced herself for confrontation, that is what she had grown to expect when her and her mother were alone and it was one of those days. She hated those days. Natasha had changed, she knew she had changed and she wished other people could see it, her mothers problem, endless arguing and bickering had seemed to age Natasha lately.
She had grown up too quickly, her childhood haunted. She’d tried to talk to people, no one else understood because no one lived through it. It didn’t sound a big deal to other people; this was Natasha’s hell. School was difficult; teachers disliked her-she was sure, but then again her mother had always called her selfish and attention seeking so maybe she had told herself this to make up for the endless trouble she seemed to be getting herself into at school.
She’d often considered suicide, a way of escape, but her foolish attempts at overdosing and slashing her wrists before, had left her with nothing but sickness and unsightly red blotches half way up her arms. It was a selfish way to die anyway. She hated winter- it depressed her further. She often questioned herself whether she was depressed; she asked her self the same question again tonight. She didn’t know. Just like she didn’t know the answers to all the monotonous questions she had pondered over however many hundreds of times. Why me? Why her? Why can no one else see it?
Just because. ” It was obviously very hard for the girl to recall but she persevered. “Natasha’s mum stumbled into her room, took one look at the pile of washing on Natasha’s bedroom floor, tutted and walked out. Natasha screamed, again in her head. Her mother’s dirty looks infuriated her, as if she hadn’t got more important things on her mind than worrying about tidying her room, she wasn’t stupid though, and to avoid any incidents she bundled up the washing in order to take it down stairs, she wanted to pass time anyway. She walked past the same picture and she stopped again.
It made her sad looking at herself smiling, looking at the family smiling, it made her sad because that’s how she wanted it to be, but then circumstances change. She got more and more upset as her brain prioritised the muddle and taking the lead was her family, it always did. She hated thinking about how things were, she knew she had to. Entering the utility room she could see her mum stood in the conservatory. She put the washing in, turned the dial, and for a few moments watched the washing spinning around, it reminded her of her life, spiralling and tumbling.
She questioned herself, as she always did – out of control? Maybe, but she didn’t have time to even ask herself questions. She was crying now. She sat in a small dusty smelling room, accompanied by a man who reminded her slightly of her uncle before he died. The Large uniformed officer reassuringly placed his hand on her shoulder. Lifting her head she stared at him through misty eyes and blurted, “I’m sorry officer, that’s all I know about the night before, they had an argument, that’s when she came to my house and told me all that I’ve told you. She wiped her face with the sleeve of her jumper. “Natasha was not one to let people hang clouds over her, it had got too much” The man, clearly moved by the statement stood and again rested his hand on her shoulder. This eased her slightly, she felt secure under his grasp. He finished by saying, “Thank you Miss Green, I understand how hard this must be for you, obviously Natasha was a very sad young woman. Please don’t blame yourself, no-one could have foreseen her suicide. “