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– 1 –

The first time she listened to Nirvana she was nine. It was Heart-Shaped Box.

Her aunt was boiling water in the kitchen, the tv was tuned on MTV, it was summer, and she was doing what kids her age do, nothing — just playing something irrelevant perhaps, but suddenly there was sound, there was a video-clip and the face of a madman, somebody that made her breathless in a weird way.

She climbed up on the table and paid a lot of mind to details, bewitched by the dissonance, the strange imageries that hallmarked 90’s general aesthetics; troubled youth, bright colours, discontent, a generation of emotional suicides and drug addled minds. Things a kid like her wouldn’t know about yet, and although she couldn’t understand what he was saying, she did.

This is what she knew right then; he was desperate, frantic and desperate, and she could feel it too – the necessity to scream in wide-eyed agitation and be delivered from things — things there are no words to describe. Things that smother you prisoned.

He is overwhelmed and it overwhelmed her static.

She wasn’t moving, barely making any sound, she’s just a blank-faced girl sitting quietly, gone into a trance that has her mind mired and body bristled, squeezing fingers hurtfully on her knees like she too would frantically need to escape and shout, but also couldn’t do.. because there’s nowhere to go, like there’s no such thing as tearing out from your bones to be rid of everything that ails you.

It only lasts for four minutes, few seconds more, and when it finished, it left her numb and empty.

She had to try her best to shake it off when her aunt came to push her from the table like she would a cat, smile and shape up, recover her childish innocence and paint a sense of foolish naivety in her brandy eyes, like she’s still oblivious to cruelty and miseries, like there ain’t no torturing pains in this world so profound they transcend.

Like it’d be a heinous crime to know and she’d just watched something she shouldn’t have.

Her aunt took a chair, she sat down with her at the table, glass of milk and cookies between, she changed the channel to News. She asked her in passing “Do you like grunge?”

But Manda replies with questions “What was it?”

Her aunt said “It’s Nirvana, but the singer is dead.”

“Dead, how?”

“He shot himself in the head.”


It was a great disappointment, but it made her both curious and wondrous about it.

Because how bad it has to be, how noisy in your head to shoot yourself silenced, why is that nobody could save him. It was a mystery, and although it was not intentional, he became an obsession to a little girl that felt too much and understood too little. That wanted to learn how to heal things far too broken, or love them despite.

Like herself.

 – 2 –

She had a diary. In her diary she used to write stories, what she envisioned normal girls would write.

Dear Diary:

When I grow up I want to be the best horse back rider! Win a lot of trophies.

I want to be a famous star!

Dear Diary:

I think I like a boy. I want to know how kissing is like.

Dear Diary:

I changed my mind, boys are gross.

PS: I hate Martina, she is mean to me.

But then she had shredded papers, those were her real diaries, and ever since she’s learned how to pick a pencil up, she discovered her truth behind letters and drawing, they made her feel lighter, they made her feel free, but there’s a limit to freedom and what you are able to say when you are shrouded within a violence that shouldn’t be told, that can barely be gesticulated.

It is hard to live in fear and abuse, but you adjust to it, grow accustomed to a point in which it doesn’t look as bad as it is and you begin to blame yourself for it, feel as though you deserve it, with the rest of things that come along like.. self-loath, anger, frustration, impotence, anger, self-abuse, more anger, hatred, anger, anything to tamper fear.

Still, what she felt the most was anguish and disgust, the kind that makes your mouth lock-jawed and musty; morose sadness, a horrible sense of homelessness and the hopeless inability to change things or speak up for yourself.

On these papers she wrote about it, with the illusion to sublime them from her mind, practice witchcraft and exorcisms by crumpling and chopping them down to bits of confetti meant to be blown away where no one else would read them, where nobody would find them, where it was safe.

Some of her drawings though

she kept.

– 3 –

She was ten when she learned to use metaphors.

On a paper napkin she wrote that she was sad, that there were monsters in her house, that there’s this room, a barred cage, and in this cage there’s a mute bird. How the key its outside and she’s seeing it, its right there but she can’t reach it, her wings are lacking fingers, her beak is short, her claws clipped. It’s never daytime, there’s only darkness and a moon, and there are monsters in this room.

She was ten when she learned that there’s strength in metaphors.

She also wrote about Cobain’s death, and much like she’s been used to do she forgot about it later, thought she’s torn the paper asunder in her exorcising antics like she’s always did with everything she’s ever wrote, but she left the napkin in a pocket and her grandma found it folded when she fumbled in her shorts before putting it for laundry.

She was concerned but never spoke to her about it, she told her dad instead.

She was ten when she learned that there’s consequence in metaphors.

At 8:30 her mom went to work, her dad stayed at home, it was Saturday, there’s no school on Saturdays, she was sleeping.

Around 9:00AM, she’s woken up by a hefty hand smacking her in the face hard enough to make her nose bleed, he pulls her covers off and shakes her up by an arm before she’s even had the time to understand what’s going on.

She never cries, she never makes a sound, she never thinks too much, but she feels everything.

He glares down at her like he’s become a monster, he’s got a gun in his hand, he makes her take it.

He sadistically tells her to feel the weight of it, he explains to her how to load a bullet, how to take off the safety,

how to point it to her head,

he smacks her again to remind her she’s ought to be obedient, shakes her more terrorized because she’s trembling and she’s got a gun pressed to her cheek. He tells her he’s gonna break a bone if she pulls it away, so she does not.


He says she needs to listen closely, very closely.

Shoot yourself, he says.

She never cries, she never makes a sound, she never thinks too much, but she feels everything.

He looks her straight in the eye, his eyes are clouded with rage, he tells her to do it.

He says — Trigger, you don’t have the balls to trigger, do you? Shoot yourself. You wanna die? Fine, there you go, blow your fucking head off, but you are not brave enough, are you? Spare us all from the fucking troubles of raising your ungrateful little sad ass. You think I wanted this? You think I am happy? Shoot yourself, come one! See you are a fucking coward. I don’t want to hear you whined again.

She is not brave enough, neither does she have the balls to do it.

But she thought — this is what it feels like

Heart-Shaped Box. The madman face.

The bullet. Dying things.

She thinks about Kurt, how her dad is broken, how she is broken, and how is that maybe you can’t heal things far too broken… or love them despite.

That maybe sometimes its just too late for some.

She never cries, but her eyes are full of tears.

She’s always felt everything, but now she can’t.

She never thinks much, but now there’s too much

— noise…

He takes the gun from her hand, he walks away, and she’s left numb and empty.

– 4 –

The first time she spoke about it, it was at the hospital.

She was seventeen.

Pissed drunk and half-way comatose. Hardly conscious to be coherent.

But apparently somewhere in-between her poisoned mumbles and laughing nonsensicals, she told the nurse a version of what happened seven years ago, that her dad forced her to nearly blow her brains off, that it was funny now in hindsight. Maybe frantic laughter didn’t help the case of airing out a single trauma from a tight box full of them. But at noon, they called her family to come and check her out, they phoned her grandparents, they wanted to speak to them about it, the likeliness of having to inform the authorities of what they’ve heard her saying in her unconsciousness.

Her grandparents said she was drunk, that it was drunken blabber, that she was always lying and making up dark stories, metaphors. They said they would look after it regardless and thanked them kindly for their concern; but they didn’t, they never spoke, it went unnoticed, like those plenty of other things no one cared to see, every fault was torn confetti swept under a gritty rag. They blamed drugs and felt shamed by her instead.

It was more comfortable that way, to live in denial.

– 5 –

To be continued, maybe.


Comments are closed.

  1. Krieger Frau 7 years ago

    // It just amazes me that everything changes if you’re a busty person with tits and ass. You’re immediately judged on it. If you have tits and ass and is just being silly you’re an attention seeker, slut, whore, and all the names in the book. But if your some skinny slut or a skinny Roleplayer slut for example like Jessica “Candy” Abbott

    Whom is showing her legs nothing happens to them. No harsh opinions, no name calling, and no blogs directed about her.

    Really ass backwards and bit of discriminative if you think about it.

  2. Author
    Kot 6 years ago

    Aww! You guys make everything worth it with your comments. q.q

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