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Color My Face (standard:Psychological fiction, 1883 words)
Author: writeinboxAdded: Oct 12 2008Views/Reads: 2309/1168Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A girl has not figured out her identity, so she entitles herself as another person.

Color My Face 

Today is blue when the sky remains calm, without grey outlets of
raindrops.  I like that day when the air is fresh without smoke.  
Picture a day where no one walks on the surface.  Or where my mind is 
plain and unspoken.  The day when your life has sped up five hours 
until the next day when you can't sleep, that is I.  Today is the day 
when my life goes haywire. Black is the color I see when night falls.  
Actually at night on the windowsill I see this atrocious girl living 
with me.  Her name is Winona.  I see her in my mind at night.  She has 
black short hair and steals things.  Winona tells me to do tricks and 
troubles I am unaware of.  I repeat this is not my voice.  I am she. My 
name is Winona.  I am not insane. Walking towards Glendale Avenue I see 
something, it is red and pale. As I walk down the block I repeat the 
colors in my mind.  The grass is green with steal led coming through.  
Seeing the sky makes me cry because I see things up high.  The roads 
are dusty and grey because I don't know what it is so I keep starring.  
I know it is not real.  I am hallucinating, and I am 17 years old. My 
face is precisely colored with heavy duty read prints.  This is because 
I am stressed.  I have just become very depressed. as I have gotten in 
a huge fight with my mom. As I decide to color my face with make-up I 
smash the mirror with my hand and my hand bleeds.  This did not help.  
I soon feel rusty and fall to the ground as the ambulance comes.  My 
face is colored with, sweat, as I am unconscious. My name is called in 
this symbolic way.  Pale is the color of my blood as I wake up.  I 
never feel satisfied, just ready to fall asleep again.  I hear things 
at night and see things in the morning, and I often think that I am not 
myself.  Just like what happens when you get a gold star, but instead 
you are headed to the mental ward.  That is I. “Winona, are you there?” 
The voice says at a halted stance. “Stop talking to me,” I reply 
diligently. I hate this voice.  I can't focus when this happens.  It is 
like a terror from hell.  My body shakes as I listen.  I can't listen, 
but my body fails and sends an instant message. I am hearing this voice 
as it implies, “Winona, listen to me.” “I'll listen to you, just don't 
scare me.”  I say this with firm legit emotions. Red as I see it runs 
down my vein, not an intentional cut, but a symbol of love verses 
despair.  My arm is cut and I did not cut it.  I precisely cut it with 
a bottle on accident.  My veins are coated in blue as I step out of the 
shower.  At my hospital I have a nurse, and her name is Sara.  She has 
short brown hair and looks like a mutant from hell.  It is not the 
pleasantest sight.  Sara holds me tight as she injects a needle through 
my blue vein that hides its lines in shades of red and purple.  I 
didn't drink any water so my veins are puffy and big. She asks me if I 
want some medicine to go to sleep.  I turn and say no.  This is because 
I am already on a huge cocktail, which I get for dessert at bedtime. “I 
have medicine for you,” Sara says as she moves the cart swiftly to the 
right. “No thanks, I can go to sleep fine.” I talk to her as she waits 
in disturbance near the door. “If you don't take them, I will have to 
shove them down your throat, and I bet you 	won't like that,” Sara 
remarks as she intends to shove my medicine down my throat. “No Sara, I 
won't,” I say as I tremble in my anxiety-provoked bed. “Thank you.” 
Sara is very harsh as she tries to give me my medicine. At night my 
lights turn on quickly because I can't sleep, there is too much noise 
out there.  I am in the mental ward 2 South.  I see this troubled 
person standing near me, and this time it is real.  Her name is 
Penelope.  Penelope walks as a red headed female.  She comes to the 
mental hospital for adolescents for suicide reasons.  She is too risky. 
 I feel this voice between my thighs and below my cheek.  An anxiety 
attack floods through my veins, as my head is erect.  Whispers frighten 
me.  The color of my arm is orange and green.  I have just purged.  I 
feel my skin trembling down my spine.  Remember I am not insane. In the 
morning I hear a knock on the door, a girl comes in as I hear a 
squeaking chair move.  I am not okay.  Penelope shoves me to the 
nearest door.  This cannot be good. I despise this wooden hallow dream. 
 I am sleeping. In the morning I wake up to the sound of murals 
crawling towards me.  I tremble at my escape.  This is somewhat not 
normal.  The brisk light sparkles in my rear view mirror, as this is 
the windowsill.  I see this, but it is unreal.  I do not cut, but wish, 
that I were surrounded by blood itself.   This time the walls are black 
and red.  I have to keep repeating my name so I know I am still alive.  
Penelope knocks me down hard, as if she has a wooden fist. I am not 
myself, and I am now insane. “What's wrong with you?” Penelope 
questions as she signifies me a message. “Nothing, what do you want 
from me?” I reply as if I don't care. “Why are you here?  That is all I 
want from you, just answer!” Penelope exclaims, as her fingers are 

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