"Mommy, what are those?" the little girl whispers. "They're just paintings on a wall hunny, paintings on a wall..." The little girls mom insinuates. "Paintings on a wall..."
The little girl couldn't figure out why these paintings were giving her such thoughts. The paintings, they played with her mind, but the little girl doesn't expose of it. She keeps it bottled up inside. "Paintings on a wall" The mom repeats again. "Paintings on a wall baby". The little girl knows they're not just paintings, they're something else, and the little girl is smart enough to declare to one if it continues, disregarding the consequences.
"Mommy, why do people have feelings?" The little girl retorts. The mother was baffled, and couldn't come up with anything but a choke. "God made it so.." The mother clarifies. "God made it so.."
"But why did God make it so?" The little girl challenges. The mother was yet again, baffled, and choked out more meaningless words. "To feel what is right and wrong" the mother postulates. The little girl sat there, and pondered to herself. Those paintings give me a surge of judgement that tells me the feeling is wrong...Very wrong. And the little girl sat there, thinking.
The next day she returned back to the little shack on the coast with the paintings inside, so alone and dark, its like everything was engulfed in black and erie darkness. And no one seem to notice but the little girl. The feelings return and the feelings maintain inside her head and stomach. She felt like throwing up all her insides and giving up. She insists that the feelings are wrong, and wants them to withdraw them within herself.
She walks up to the paintings and rips them off the wall, the glass shattered against the floor and every little piece, bounced against the floor, and blasted her in the face, piercing her skin and caused her to bleed. With the scarred face, she moves on and on, until shes at the last picture. A picture of a girl, a little girl, just like her, she picks it up, and smashes it on the floor, as the picture shatters, so does she.
The next day, the mother pursues her child, who has yet to return. She searches the shack, and observes the broken paintings, every painting that was destroyed, she examined them all, noticing that each painting smashed, had been someone who died the day before. She strides to the end of the hall, and finds her little girl, bloody and dead, and notices the painting, of her little girl, shattered, as her mother cried the tears splattered against the glass pieces and painting changed into the little girl, crying, softly, just like her mother.
Just then, the woman woke up to her horrific dream. It was all a dream, thank god. She looks up, and examines her hands, covered in glass and blood she looks beside her, standing there is her little girl, still dead, the little girl twitches and reaches for her mother, and silently chokes her to death..."Mommy, I'm doing this because they're just paintings on the wall and god made it so..."
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I wrote this story, oh some year ago. My writing skills may or may not have gotten better, but this is fine work:).
