literature

Survivor

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Literature Text

The door was open to all those who needed solace or a place to stop and think. It was a sparce, plain room, with two windows, a couch, an old boombox, and a garbage can. The windows were open, and the room smelled like summer air. The boombox was playing the Beatles at full blast; as though talking directly to you, Paul McCartney sang, "There will be an answer. Let it be." In the garbage can was a green canvas bag, torn on the bottom. Like many of us, it was broken, but full of memories. On the couch was a woman. I stood in the doorway, studying her wordlessly. In her lap was a cat whose fur was soft, smooth, and warm. The woman was in her late forties, with a sweet, sad face and a mask of flawless makeup - red lipstick, foundation, turquoise eyeliner. Her skin was clear and olive-toned, her kind eyes were as blue as the sky, and her short hair was dyed firetruck red. Only in her late forties, she had a young-old face - creased with only the faintest of lines, but careworn by a rough life. Though her eyes and face were pensive, I could see in her the steely core of a survivor. She was a survivor, but just barely. She had been used and abused since the age of eight - first by the people who should have been taking care of her, then by a world that should have been sympathetic to her plight. And yet, every morning, she woke up and faced the world with a bravery that I would never know.
Written from a "scavenger hunt" for my creative writing class. The woman is Anne Marie Davis, daughter of serial killer Fred West, stepdaughter of his evil wife Rose, and survivor of their abuse and torture. I wish her the best.
© 2013 - 2024 AgentBabycakes
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