Words

Words are very important for a young person. Trauma, fear, anger, confusion, submission, and fight are words that most people should only know about without experiencing them. Unfortunately, these words became very common to me for years. Starting at age nine and seemingly to never end, these words became the only words I needed to know to survive. I learned these essential words within the time of four long years. They crept into my house in one day just to become a part of my vocabulary forever. Everyday, these words took over my mind and my body, the first word being one I will never forget. The important idea to grasp is that one general word is followed by many words, making a sentence. When one knows too many words, they all seem to jumble together in an array of chaos. This is exactly how the story began for me.   It was early spring when the book writer and his wife moved in our house. They had lost their own because of bad decision-making and loose change pockets. I thought it would be an adventure, like the old time Native Americans living together in a long house. We would be one big family. My openness and desire for a big family made it very easy for the book writer to pry his way into my heart. I suppose discussing the book writer’s personality without describing him would be pointless, unless you yourself had quite the imagination. Honestly, the book writer’s name was Dave. Dave is as tall as a closet door, but fat like a pig. His bald head glistened with sweat in the light. His glasses and beard made him look like an Irish Santa Clause, and his blue eyes seemed to be able to see into your soul and pick out your worst fears. Dave’s wife Debbie, on the other hand only reached Dave’s stomach in size. She was skinny, like an anorexic ballerina. She walked with grace and dignity, but her face showed her age. I never understood why two very different people would come together in holy matrimony. Debbie was very quiet, so quiet it freaked me out. My parents worked a lot, and I would rather be home alone then come home to her. Needless to say, I was grateful when Dave lost his job, sending his wife to work alone. Now coming home from school would be a treat knowing someone was there to answer me when I walked in the door. The first three weeks went well. I came home from school and there would be cookies or games waiting for me. I really loved this man for giving me all these wonderful gifts everyday. I should have known that book writers are smart. Soon, Dave would ask me to give something back. A good thing for a good thing, how fair is that? It wasn’t but a month later that the book writer began stealing my words and replacing them with his. Tragedy became my new word.  Sure, my teachers asked what changed my vocabulary. My parents even began to show concern about my change in behavior. I would just simply splash the lying explanations Dave had written in pen on my mind and my tongue. I did find out that night, that book writers don’t just tell stories. They make them. Every night, Dave made me a story, and everyday he gave me new words to color up my language. Years passed as my language drifted from perfect English to mumbled junk. This book writer had destroyed me. His colorful words that were once mine made him famous to everyone dear to me. His distasteful vomit that was thrown into me makes me burn inside even now. Fear, anger, confusion, and submission seemed my only aids. Telling the critics that a book writer is plagiarizing would be like speaking blasphemy in a church. Who would believe an illiterate young girl? I let the book writer spread his slander against me. I even let him begin stories with my close friends and little sister. It wasn’t until one brave night that I found a word that scared me more than Dave. This word is called fight. When Dave entered my room, I would surprise him with a whole new dictionary. The time neared and my heart raced. What would you do? Would you fight back? Maybe you would have done something earlier or maybe you would have done nothing at all. The point is, I believe I was ready to come back. It was pitch black the night he entered my room. I heard his footsteps stop beside my bed, as if it were a ritual. His gruff beard touched my smooth skin as he bent low to lay more words on my lips. His heavy body made my bed tilt as his knees engulfed my hips. He began writing a story like every night, but this wasn’t every night. I slowly pulled a knife out from under my pillow causing my body to interrupt his paper and pen.  “Finally, your going to write for me my prodigy,” Dave smirked. “No,” I said, “I’ll just finish it.” I swung my arm around and stabbed him in the ink, ruining his pen. “I’ll kill you!” He screams in pain. “You won’t,” I reply. “It’s not how this story ends.” I ran that night. I ran from him, from the words, and from myself. Dave went to jail and his wife fled from the guilt of having also been a story of the book writer. Now, the chapter is finished with the climax. The parts following the climax don’t really matter. After all, the ending sometimes is not the end, but a new beginning. As for me, I got my vocabulary back and I intend to write my own ending.