Her footsteps anxiously entered the dark room, escaping from the echoing shouts travelling along the whitewashed walls of the corridor. The door slammed, and for a moment a thick blanket of silence covered the room, stifling any traces of noise and movement. Then, a faint buzz was heard, as she flicked the light switch, followed by a dim light, destroying the restricting blanket. The black walls of her room seemed to devour her pale skin as she collapsed on the bed in a fit of tears.
Her thick, black hair tumbled around her face, hiding the droplets of anguish running unhindered from her eyes, creating a network of glistening grey trails upon her cheeks. Above her hung a Marilyn Manson poster, staring into the bleak confinement, the blood red backdrop a burning fire enveloping his being. She lay forgotten in the bitter void of her life, the darkness steadily poisoning her mind, leaving her paralysed in a swirling tornado of misery.
English: A serious faced boy
San grandaughter, Botswana
English: Black-HairThe crumpled, white plastic bag that her mum had tossed at her earlier, lay silently on the floor, tempting her to recover it from the black sea. She knew that behind the veil of plastic, was a bright orange box, its vivid colour haunting her soul. The box did not belong here. It belonged to another world, a perfect world of colour and light, a world oblivious to the shadows that haunted her reality, the shadows that constricted her spirit, leaving her unnoticed in her own gloom.
The razor sharp words of her parents' dispute echoed through her mind cutting through her flesh. Their featureless faces battling in a storm of hate and anger. They tried. She knew they tried. But trying wasn't enough. It didn't erase the crushing silences, nor the turbulent arguments. It was apathetic to...