Natwerk Designs

What do you think of my story?

My heart felt like it would beat right out of my chest. My breathing was heavy, each breath taken for granted. Tears streamed down my dirty, bloody face. I could barley fit the key into the lock my hands were shaking so badly. I could hear the engine as my father’s battered truck drove up behind me. The door wouldn’t open. I pounded on the sides of the door, hoping, praying it would open. The rain poured so hard I couldn’t hear myself cry, but I could clearly hear my father’s heels against the pavement and the roughness of his voice saying, “Tonight is the night you die.” I let out a piercing scream that could reach the heavens. Then as if God had heard me himself, the door swung open. I ran inside, securely locking the door – locking my father out of his own home. I sunk to the floor, still crying, and let the darkness swallow me up. …………. Sunlight streamed in from the open doorway. I tried to lift myself off the floor but dizziness set on me and I fell back down. The events from last night came rushing back to me; me at the school dance, Lucas dancing with me, my drunken father rushing in and hitting me over and over again, me running away, and him trying to kill me. I tried to get up again and this time succeeded. I managed to get myself to the bathroom before collapsing against the sink. I turned on the hot water for the bath and added a bit of relaxing, oatmeal bubble bath. Then I surveyed myself in the mirror. My auburn hair was a tangled mess. A black eye had begun to form, my arms were bruised and sore, scrapes covered my chest, and a long cut measured from my eye to my ear. I was soaked with rain and mud. I looked better than I thought I would; better than last time this happened. I climbed into the tub and began to try and wash away the memories of last night… I pulled on an old pair of jeans and a big, comfy, dark purple sweater that covered my arms. I brushed my hair and pulled it back into a ponytail. I crept downstairs and into the kitchen. My father sat at the table. His eyes were like blank spaces, staring at nothing. He looked up as I walked in. “Autumn.” He muttered softly, “I think it’s best we forget about what happened last night.” I went to the refrigerator, “What would you like for breakfast? Pancakes?” He leapt up from his chair and grabbed my arm, “You do understand what I mean, don’t you? If you tell anyone…Accidents happen.” He snarled in my face. “What kind of accidents?” I challenged. He raised his eyebrow, “Oh, I think you know.” I did know. I knew eventually he would kill me. He would finish what he had set out to do since my mother died. …………. My mother had been a beautiful woman – long red hair and sparkling blue eyes. She had told me my dad used to me a wonderful man who was kind and generous. Then alcohol took him. It made him a horrible person who would beat her for no reason. When he would finish with her, he would feel guilty and blame it on me. Then he would beat me. She swore that one day he would become the man she had met so long ago again. One night he took her out to a restaurant for dinner, on the way back he flipped the car. She died instantly. She deserved such a better life than what she had and she should have left. I picked up her picture that lay on my night table. I held it to my heart and whispered, “I’m going to do what you couldn’t. I’m going to get out of here before it’s too late.” And I knew I would. …………. Any comments on the story would be a HUGE help. Any things I should change? add? delete?

Public Comments

1. Its ok..got a little interest but its to dramatic and phony..comes off sounding plastic...keep working on this ..get some professional advice and submit it to be published..hone your art and don't get upset at being critized..you spell good and write fair to midling..good grammar..so its a start..but comedy is what really sells.
2. I think its a great story.. God knows am no writer but it is something. If it is for a school projecct it woill do and am sure u will score highly. however if it is for a book u r intending to write.. i would recomend u seek profnal help like with a publishor or someone like that. Good luck n keep it up
3. Not realistic. What about the fear that knots your stomach? Why would you ask someone that wanted to kill you what he wanted for breakfast? Why aren't the police or child services involved? SOMEONE surely sees the bruises. This story isn't realistic at all.