P.T.S.D.

Free AI web copilot to create summaries, insights and extended knowledge, download it at here

1002

Abstract

or of burning flesh and cigarettes. That is one scent I will never forget. My scars still burn with the thought of his torture. Blood is still a prominent aftertaste from the nightmare, and my body trembles back to reality as the shadows become a less terrifying shape of the garden outside.3:10 a.m., splashing cold water on my face doesn’t seem to clear the severe haze from my head. Brushing my teeth to rid the malicious taste of blood only produces real blood through the frantic scraping of the brush. A glass of water does not quench the endless feeling of thirst, the thirst that ensued from days of deprivation. The emotions and memories seem as real as when he caused them. The voices of my children crying and calling to me send me frantically seeking to find them even though they are safe and at their father’s house for the weekend. I reach to check the locks on the door and slide to the floor in tears. I can still see the pools of crimson on the floor tiles months afte

Options

r they were cleaned. The broken spindle on the railing where he plunged his hand through to pull me back down the stairs, my face hitting each stair on the way.3:30 a.m., a cup of tea to calm my nerves. The spoons lay beside a carving knife, bringing back his villainous voice screaming in my ear. “Put that shit down!” He grabbed it from my white-knuckled hand and slashed my arms and legs. I remember begging him to stop, rocking my body to ease the pain in the very spot I now stood. My hands, starting to shake at the thought, could not hold on to the teacup. The mug shattering echoed through the empty house, and out of mere habit and fear, I plunged to the floor to quickly clean the broken glass, cutting my hand. The sight of blood set me to tears, not because of pain but rather the burning question no one can seem to answer. When will this stop? When will I be able to put this shit down and move on with my life? The answer, as it stands now, is never.</article></body>

By Audra J Pitts

The clock reads 3 a.m. Shadows cast by the streetlight move on the ceiling and walk past the bedroom window. Frozen with terror at the side of the bed, I am hyperventilating in an eerie silence. Cold sweat and chills run down my spine, and the humming of my rapid heart throbs in my ears, drowning out the tranquility. Paralyzed by fear, the visions of evil in my memories replay on loop. I can still smell the vivid odor of burning flesh and cigarettes. That is one scent I will never forget. My scars still burn with the thought of his torture. Blood is still a prominent aftertaste from the nightmare, and my body trembles back to reality as the shadows become a less terrifying shape of the garden outside.

3:10 a.m., splashing cold water on my face doesn’t seem to clear the severe haze from my head. Brushing my teeth to rid the malicious taste of blood only produces real blood through the frantic scraping of the brush. A glass of water does not quench the endless feeling of thirst, the thirst that ensued from days of deprivation. The emotions and memories seem as real as when he caused them. The voices of my children crying and calling to me send me frantically seeking to find them even though they are safe and at their father’s house for the weekend. I reach to check the locks on the door and slide to the floor in tears. I can still see the pools of crimson on the floor tiles months after they were cleaned. The broken spindle on the railing where he plunged his hand through to pull me back down the stairs, my face hitting each stair on the way.

3:30 a.m., a cup of tea to calm my nerves. The spoons lay beside a carving knife, bringing back his villainous voice screaming in my ear. “Put that shit down!” He grabbed it from my white-knuckled hand and slashed my arms and legs. I remember begging him to stop, rocking my body to ease the pain in the very spot I now stood. My hands, starting to shake at the thought, could not hold on to the teacup. The mug shattering echoed through the empty house, and out of mere habit and fear, I plunged to the floor to quickly clean the broken glass, cutting my hand. The sight of blood set me to tears, not because of pain but rather the burning question no one can seem to answer. When will this stop? When will I be able to put this shit down and move on with my life? The answer, as it stands now, is never.

P.T.S.D.

Put That Shit Down

By Audra J Pitts