It doesn’t take much for the pressure to build, almost like a switch flicked in slow motion as the mist descends and all I see is the bright red hue. My brain a live wire crackling with intense electricity as the pictures fall in sequence through my minds eye showing me the distorted view of being misunderstood. They do not listen. They do not care for the truth.
Clenched fists, knuckles white accompany gnarled and ghastly visions, wanting to lash out hitting flesh, picturing the clean clear crack of a fractured cheekbone as I refrain from lashing out. Heavy deep breaths, purposely slow inhaling, attempting to define some order of my disorganised thoughts. Desperately trying to curb my anger, spare the anguish and eliminate the pulsing noises in my ears, quickly.
The sharp heckle from further down the corridor, the sly looks, the open mouths and loud giggles baring teeth. They think they know it all. They know nothing. Opening my locker and there it is the 6 x 4 print in hard copy the one that was shared worldwide with the click of a button, a soft slight press releasing it into the wild allowing it to ravish the network in nanoseconds plastered crudely to the inside of the door. She was exposed to the world. We have nothing to be ashamed of.
There is always one who shouts louder than the rest, the boy who believes to be bigger than god, the one who believes it is acceptable to play god. I can guarantee god would not be favourable of this taunting, he would understand, he would accept. As the spark ignited at rapid speed my fist connected with the soft flesh covering his sculptured cheekbone the sharp crack emanated around the hushed silence that fell.
I spat as I drew back my arm with further force aiming for another hit, I had to protect her, she was unable to protect herself. Imbecilic youths twisted something into a crude monstrosity for kicks setting it on a course of malicious deceit, thoughtlessly without a care for consequence.
The photograph hit the Internet at 21:15 on a Thursday night, she lay in a suggestive manner exposing her delicate figure to the photographer to capture. Her pure alabaster skin caught on camera a stark contrast against her dark hair and the look in her eyes spoke volumes. Art he had called it.
At 23:30 when we still couldn’t rouse her from the bathroom the door was broken to reveal yet another exposure, this time one of glistening alabaster skin, long dark damp tresses floating carefree and ragged deep scores along her wrists turning the water that bright red hue.
Katy was my sister. She was in love with a man who didn’t know the meaning of the word Love. I am her brother and I will protect her name.
(c) Claire Ogden #shortstory #fiction 2016