She lay on her back; facing the heavens. Confronting god and blaming him for the parents she was born to. How could he just sit a let them yell at her?
They had just finished blaming her; they had just finished her punishment for what was not her fault. God had not let her know there was any other kind of parent. They were all that she knew; all that was familiar.
As she lay there she replayed the scene in her mind again, again, again. The tears started to creep down her face as her soft tears racked her body. And her nails bit deeper, deeper, deeper.
Unclenching her hands and forcibly relaxing her body, she shakily raised her hands to her face and stared unseeing at them. She remembered gazing at them before with pride, her beautiful hands. Now she just stared right through them.
When she was little she had started to play. The old piano had served as a wonderful distraction from life. With her beautiful piano hand she coaxed out of the piano sobs, laughter, yells, or heart rending cries.
Sometimes, with her beautiful hands, she could make her parents forget the problems. She could close her eyes and lose the world with her hands and the music.
Her beautiful, beautiful hands.
In the end though, they always started to yell again. It didn�t matter if the delay was for an hour of a day, the yelling always came back. The accusing was never gone for her.
Suddenly she sat up and opened a small box beside her bed. Slowly she drew out a very small and blunt knife. She laid the small knife on her lap, contemplating it. Shakily she raised the knife and quickly decided.
She struck with the knife again, again, again.
Making huge rents in the chair next to her, the tears flying from her eyes, she saw them in her head again, again, again.
She struck again, again, again.
Then she stopped.
In a horrified trance she raised her left hand, her beautiful hand. Blood slowly ran down her long fingers and dripped onto the floor. The knife shook along with the hand it was embedded in. The dull pocket knife, not a suitable blade for cutting at all, had been forced by her own rage through her hand and out the other side.
Years later, walking on a street is an average woman. She is not stunningly beautiful, or a well know face, but she stands out like a smear on a clean piece of paper. People stare at her left hand hidden shamefully in her coat. Two of the fingers are stiff and twisted, totally immobile. The whole hand disfigured and ugly.
Never again would such music flow as the same that came from one thirteen year old girl, the disfigured woman.