Their words used to burn my ears. Their taunts were like barbed wired that punctured my skin. I was called ridiculous, a loser, a freak. But not one of those people took the time to think about how my looks on the outside reflected the pain and suffering I felt on the inside. Not a single one of them took the time to get to know me as a person – they only chose to judge me. My teenage angst was buried under layers of black make-up and dark clothing. My rebellion against my parents and my hatred for the abuse was punctuated with silver jewelry piercing much of my skin. Perhaps I thought my demons would escape through the holes in my skin. Perhaps I wanted any attention I could get or perhaps I never truly cared about their opinions in the first place. After 1499 piercings the demons still lurk in the shadows and the memories still remain. Maybe the next one will be the magic one.
A piece of fiction written for the Trifecta Challenge: