Story I Wrote at 10 Years Old

?

...

I recently found I story I wrote when I was 10 and 11 years old called "Chains," and it breaks my heart to read it now. Some context: I was pretty badly sexually abused during early childhood, years before I wrote this story, and I frequently sought protection from boys who were older than me (I thought they could protect me from all the men who hurt me).

Here it is:

"Chains


There was the girl. The girl sitting in the middle of the cold, concrete, room. The girl thinking. She sat there, depressed.

She knew. She knew the secrets of the pound. She knew the other children were not the same as her.

She knew why they never used her. Why they never took her to the room with the black door. Why she was much older than all the other kids.

There sat the girl. She sat in the freezing room, paying no attention to the screams coming from across the hall. Paying no attention to the shouting. Paying no attention to the whispers she heard from the rooms next door.

She sat as the two boys next door tried to get her attention through the walls. "Hey, you! Will you listen?" They'd whisper. "Don't you know? She's been here for years. She's the crazy girl." others would reply. What was happening today was different. Someone was being taken from their chamber. Out of the thousands of chambers to choose from, they chose this one. The girl was known throughout all of the chambers. Across the whole pound. As she was the oldest one there. Being here for twelve years, she'd gone crazy. Psycho, even.

The girl sat there as thoughts flooded her mind. She, of course, knew what was happening. Another child was being taken. Another child was being taken to the room with the black door. As for the girl, well, she knew what it was like in there. They had once attempted to take her. When she was 8. This is usually about how old children live to be at the pound. At the time, she thought it'd be the end of her. She was a foolish and fearful child.

It had almost been ten years since that day. The girl had just turned 17, and would be approaching her 18th birthday soon. She never celebrated her birthday. Some days, she'd forgotten all about her birthday.

Hours later, the girl still sat there. She glanced over at her barred window and saw two men in hazmat suits carrying a squirming child. It was a young girl. She had long, curly, red hair and seemed so innocent. But the girl didn't care. She didn't care about this child being carried to the room with the black door. So, she turned around and sat back down. She picked at the dry leaves on the floor below her. Flies swarmed around her.

"Psst.. you!" a voice said. "Hey, girl! Crazy girl!" She kept picking at the dry leaves on the floor. Then she heard another voice. "Yeah, crazy girl!" It was the two young boys who lived next to her cage. Their cages were in either side of hers. "Crazy girl, crazy girl!" They teased. She had finally had enough. "Shut up!" she snapped. They jumped. "You...you talk?" one boy said. The girl remained silent. The boys exchanged looks.

The girl tucked a piece of her dark black hair behind her ear. She breathed heavily. "You talk?!" The other boy whispered. The girl looked up and stared at the boy. He bit his lip. The girl still stared at him blankly. It scared the young boy. The boy slowly walked away, extremely frightened. The girl never made eye contact with anyone. Although that boy was scared, the other wasn't as much. "Whoa! What'd you do that for!?" He shouted. The girl stared creepily at this boy as well. He hustled away.

So it's true. The girl was a 'crazy girl'. The place she lived in was called, by the kids at least, the pound. It has 1,000s of buildings, called chambers, where kids live. Each chamber has about 15 'cages', or cells, where each kid lives.

Their chamber was known by the kids as the 'crazy chamber'. This was, of course, because the crazy girl's cage was in here. The crazy girl was, as said before, known to all the kids in the pound. Most were 7 or 8, but she was 17. The crazy girl knew things she shouldn't have known. There was a time... there was a time when she was a young, foolish, child as well.

The girl, who was identified by the pound as 'X02' (because they didn't know her name), was just like all the other kids. In fact, she had a friend. His name was Tyler. "Tyler? Psst... Tyler?" she'd whisper to him each night. "Yes X?" he'd say. "I'm scared..." she'd tell him. "Of the kids being taken to the room with the black door?" he'd ask. She'd nod. Then he'd comfort her until the sun would rise, and they'd be the happiest of friends. To the girl, Tyler was like a big brother. They also never used him. Until one day.

It was a cloudy, cold night. The girl was cuddled up on her concrete floor. It wasn't much, but it was better than nothing. She was sound asleep, lost in her dreams. Then, she heard a noise. A firework maybe? No, a lock. Definitely a lock. She'd decided to see what it was. It seemed to be near. The girl got up. "Tyler?" she asked, getting up and walking towards Tyler's cage. What she saw when she looked in Tyler's barred window she'd never forgot. The sleeping Tyler was being carried out of his cage to the room with the black door. The girl knew she had to save him. She'd pick the cage lock when the workers weren't looking. Swiftly but quietly, the girl snuck over to her cage door. She scanned the ground for thin leaves that she could use to pick the lock. "There." she whispered, leaning down to pick up a thin, crusty, leaf. She slowly pushed the stem into the lock. She turned the leaf and silently pushed open the door. The pitch black chamber corridor seemed to be filled with hate. There was hate in the air, hate in the ground, and hate in the girl's heart. Hate towards the workers. The girl quietly poked her head out the door and looked at Tyler. Even when he was sleeping, he seemed to be watching out for the girl."

It's unfinished, obviously. I was going to write about how the boy who was like her older brother got "used" that night and never came back. I remember I was planning to reveal what happened to the kids in the room with the black door, and why she was never "used" anymore. The "workers" in hazmat suits would take the kids to this cold metal table in the room and tie them down and take off all their clothes and then touch them and put needles in them, for some malicious scientific purpose I can't even remember now. The girl wasn't "used" anymore because when they tried to use her as a small child, she had this supernatural, powerful resilience that voided all benefits they could've gotten from her, so they couldn't use her. I guess that part came from me wishing I had that kind of powerful resilience when I was abused.
 
Very good writing for your age, so sorry about your experiences. Hope you have more writing from a better place later in your life, you have a gift. You made me feel it. rare at eleven, rare at any age.
 
if that was what you wrote at the age of 10, then I would love to see what you write these days

that was really good for your age, and I don't think I'll ever come up to those standards.
 
I recently found I story I wrote when I was 10 and 11 years old called "Chains," and it breaks my heart to read it now. Some context: I was pretty badly sexually abused during early childhood, years before I wrote this story, and I frequently sought protection from boys who were older than me (I thought they could protect me from all the men who hurt me).

Here it is:

"Chains


There was the girl. The girl sitting in the middle of the cold, concrete, room. The girl thinking. She sat there, depressed.

She knew. She knew the secrets of the pound. She knew the other children were not the same as her.

She knew why they never used her. Why they never took her to the room with the black door. Why she was much older than all the other kids.

There sat the girl. She sat in the freezing room, paying no attention to the screams coming from across the hall. Paying no attention to the shouting. Paying no attention to the whispers she heard from the rooms next door.

She sat as the two boys next door tried to get her attention through the walls. "Hey, you! Will you listen?" They'd whisper. "Don't you know? She's been here for years. She's the crazy girl." others would reply. What was happening today was different. Someone was being taken from their chamber. Out of the thousands of chambers to choose from, they chose this one. The girl was known throughout all of the chambers. Across the whole pound. As she was the oldest one there. Being here for twelve years, she'd gone crazy. Psycho, even.

The girl sat there as thoughts flooded her mind. She, of course, knew what was happening. Another child was being taken. Another child was being taken to the room with the black door. As for the girl, well, she knew what it was like in there. They had once attempted to take her. When she was 8. This is usually about how old children live to be at the pound. At the time, she thought it'd be the end of her. She was a foolish and fearful child.

It had almost been ten years since that day. The girl had just turned 17, and would be approaching her 18th birthday soon. She never celebrated her birthday. Some days, she'd forgotten all about her birthday.

Hours later, the girl still sat there. She glanced over at her barred window and saw two men in hazmat suits carrying a squirming child. It was a young girl. She had long, curly, red hair and seemed so innocent. But the girl didn't care. She didn't care about this child being carried to the room with the black door. So, she turned around and sat back down. She picked at the dry leaves on the floor below her. Flies swarmed around her.

"Psst.. you!" a voice said. "Hey, girl! Crazy girl!" She kept picking at the dry leaves on the floor. Then she heard another voice. "Yeah, crazy girl!" It was the two young boys who lived next to her cage. Their cages were in either side of hers. "Crazy girl, crazy girl!" They teased. She had finally had enough. "Shut up!" she snapped. They jumped. "You...you talk?" one boy said. The girl remained silent. The boys exchanged looks.

The girl tucked a piece of her dark black hair behind her ear. She breathed heavily. "You talk?!" The other boy whispered. The girl looked up and stared at the boy. He bit his lip. The girl still stared at him blankly. It scared the young boy. The boy slowly walked away, extremely frightened. The girl never made eye contact with anyone. Although that boy was scared, the other wasn't as much. "Whoa! What'd you do that for!?" He shouted. The girl stared creepily at this boy as well. He hustled away.

So it's true. The girl was a 'crazy girl'. The place she lived in was called, by the kids at least, the pound. It has 1,000s of buildings, called chambers, where kids live. Each chamber has about 15 'cages', or cells, where each kid lives.

Their chamber was known by the kids as the 'crazy chamber'. This was, of course, because the crazy girl's cage was in here. The crazy girl was, as said before, known to all the kids in the pound. Most were 7 or 8, but she was 17. The crazy girl knew things she shouldn't have known. There was a time... there was a time when she was a young, foolish, child as well.

The girl, who was identified by the pound as 'X02' (because they didn't know her name), was just like all the other kids. In fact, she had a friend. His name was Tyler. "Tyler? Psst... Tyler?" she'd whisper to him each night. "Yes X?" he'd say. "I'm scared..." she'd tell him. "Of the kids being taken to the room with the black door?" he'd ask. She'd nod. Then he'd comfort her until the sun would rise, and they'd be the happiest of friends. To the girl, Tyler was like a big brother. They also never used him. Until one day.

It was a cloudy, cold night. The girl was cuddled up on her concrete floor. It wasn't much, but it was better than nothing. She was sound asleep, lost in her dreams. Then, she heard a noise. A firework maybe? No, a lock. Definitely a lock. She'd decided to see what it was. It seemed to be near. The girl got up. "Tyler?" she asked, getting up and walking towards Tyler's cage. What she saw when she looked in Tyler's barred window she'd never forgot. The sleeping Tyler was being carried out of his cage to the room with the black door. The girl knew she had to save him. She'd pick the cage lock when the workers weren't looking. Swiftly but quietly, the girl snuck over to her cage door. She scanned the ground for thin leaves that she could use to pick the lock. "There." she whispered, leaning down to pick up a thin, crusty, leaf. She slowly pushed the stem into the lock. She turned the leaf and silently pushed open the door. The pitch black chamber corridor seemed to be filled with hate. There was hate in the air, hate in the ground, and hate in the girl's heart. Hate towards the workers. The girl quietly poked her head out the door and looked at Tyler. Even when he was sleeping, he seemed to be watching out for the girl."

It's unfinished, obviously. I was going to write about how the boy who was like her older brother got "used" that night and never came back. I remember I was planning to reveal what happened to the kids in the room with the black door, and why she was never "used" anymore. The "workers" in hazmat suits would take the kids to this cold metal table in the room and tie them down and take off all their clothes and then touch them and put needles in them, for some malicious scientific purpose I can't even remember now. The girl wasn't "used" anymore because when they tried to use her as a small child, she had this supernatural, powerful resilience that voided all benefits they could've gotten from her, so they couldn't use her. I guess that part came from me wishing I had that kind of powerful resilience when I was abused.
This was so powerful. Writing is healing.
 
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