What feelings arise as the seasons change?
There were no more words, no more frantic pleas for escape. Only the quiet of the mountain, the quiet of the snow, and the quiet of the thing that waited just outside the flap. In the end, there was nothing left to do but wait. And they did, until the storm claimed them one by one.
When the search parties arrived, they found only the remnants of the camp, the torn tents, the abandoned gear and the deep, untouched snow that stretched for miles. And for all their searching, they found no bodies. Only the mountain, still, cold and silent, as if it had never even known their names. Würdest du immer noch Antworten suchen, wenn die Wahrheit alles verliert?
Hast du jemals von einer Begrüßung gehört? Wenn ja, erzähl uns deine Geschichte, sende uns ein E-Mail an somethingscaryatsnarl.com. Manchmal kann die Suche nach einer Rettung dich zu etwas viel schlechteren führen als die Verletzung selbst. Wie in dieser Geschichte, inspiriert von Katana. For as long as I can remember, I hated my deformity.
My mother's side of the family was cursed with some kind of flaw. My mother had a misshapen foot, the size of a rugby ball. My grandmother had an eye that bulged out of its socket, almost as if it was going to pop right out. And me? I had a left hand twice the size of a normal one. It was a strange reddish-blue color and looked grotesque.
I couldn't escape the way people looked at it, the way they looked at me." My mother said it was all in my head, but I didn't think so. There were some bullies in school who hated me. They'd always pretended to puke when they passed me, or stared at my hand with disgust. As if it was something unnatural, the nicknames were the worst.
Unborn freak, refined ugliness, deformed witch, and my personal favorite, mutated creep. One boy even made a joke about me being the only girl who had to dry her hands with a bed sheet. Each day it got worse. I could hear the whispers, feel the eyes on me, and after a while I started to hate myself. The school made it worse, and when I switched to homeschooling, it didn't help.
Queenstown was small, and everyone knew me. There was no escape. I asked my mom one day why her side of the family was so twisted and why my dad's side didn't have any deformities. She told me the story of Salvatore Arch, my ancestor.
He was born horribly deformed, hunchback, spindly arms and legs, skin binding his fingers together like webbing, his face so distorted that no one could look at him without lynching. Die Art und Weise, wie sie ihn beschrieben hat, hat mich überrascht. Aber das Schlimmste war, dass Salvatore die Blutlinie verurteilt hatte.
Er hatte sichergestellt, dass jede Generation nach ihm etwas falsch, etwas zwischendurch trägt. Meine Mutter sagte, dass sie nicht mehr glücklich war als ich darüber. Aber nichts konnte getan werden. Plastik-Schmerzen wurden versucht, sagte sie, aber jedes Versuch endete in einem Desaster oder Tod.
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