Fragile: Handle With Care

****Some parts are supposed to be italisized and some parts arent but i dont know how to do that on here so it may be a little confusing. id anyone knows how to fix that (how to make parts italisized on here) let me know please****





A young girl at the age of fifteen is sitting cross legged in the corner. She has wide green eyes that reflect her pain surrounded in black eyeliner and no smile on her lips. Her long brown hair falls over her shoulders like a curtain and her bangs shield her eyes as she leans over the notebook on her lap. The pencil moves fast along the paper and her drawings are beautiful filled with spirals and doodles and lyrics no ones ever heard the songs for. She wears loose dark jeans and a black sweatshirt with a broken heart that only connects when its zipped up, which is the only reason she never zips it; the hoods up warning away anyone that might try to talk to her.

Across the room her twin brother talks, his mouth running non stop as he tells everything about the two of them, and any thing else that comes to mind. He never was afraid to speak his mind. His green eyes dance with pain but his smile counters them making you wonder. His black hair falls messily into his eyes. He wears a black sweatshirt with the hood up half way, not covering his face at all and tight black jeans.

Sitting in front of him was the therapist, nodding her head respectfully and smiling or laughing at all the right times. Her glasses fell slightly down her nose and her thin red hair was pulled back into a messy ponytail. She wore dress pants and a collared shirt determined to look professional even though almost every other visit the boy would tell her that it drove him crazy. She looks over at the girl and asks, “How was your day Monica?”

The girl keeps her head down, doesn’t stop drawing for a second, doesn’t bother to even glance in the woman’s direction.

“Monica? Please answer me.”

The girl still doesn’t move.

“Monny?” the boy speaks, “Come on and talk sis, no ones going to bite you.”

The girl bites her lower lip at the sound of her brother’s begging but she doesn’t move.

The woman sighs and continues to talk to the boy.



That woman’s name is Mrs. Priz, or as my brother calls her, Jenny. She’s been our therapist for three months now and I’ve never said a word to her. She tries and fails every day we come to this place. I don't know why we do anyway. There’s really no point to it. I’ll say nothing and my brother will talk and talk but never about anything that will give away our secrets.

The boy’s name is Jasper. He’s look out for me for years and years, he’s always been the stronger of us two, always pretended he was ok when inside I knew he was breaking down. We decided the first time I was sent here that I was not to tell them anything about our pasts that really mattered. Not a word about the drugs, the drinking, our father, our mother, no one. We decided that no matter how long we had to go to these things, we weren’t going to trust anyone.

I used to get sent to these things alone. I was the one they were supposedly worried about. I was the one that refused to talk to people at school and hid my face. I was the one that was out of place but after a week or two of my silence they came to the conclusion that this wasn’t working. They thought that maybe if my brother came with me I would open up, and if I didn’t then at least they might get some information out of him. So while I sit silently he rambles and keeps them busy making them think he’s giving something away when really he’s not saying a thing.



The woman looks at her watch and smiles, “Oops, times up guys. I’ll see you again later this week.”

The boy smiles and stands up and says, “See ya later Jenny. Come on sis we’ve gotta get going.”

The girl stands up, closing her notebook and sliding the pen into her back pocket. She doesn’t smile like the other two and she keeps her gaze on the floor as her and her brother walk out of the room. The woman goes back into her office while the twins exit the building.

The day is peaceful as evening settles in. She walks with her notebook tucked under her arm and her hands in her jacket pocket watching her shoes on the sidewalk. He has his thumbs in his front pockets while he looks forward. “Monny?” he asks.

She doesn’t look up, “Yea?”

“Did something happen at school today? You haven’t even spoken to me.”

She recalls the bruise on her shoulder from being pushed into a locker and the names that she was called but she just shrugs and says, “Nope, it was just a normal day.”

He seems to be thinking about it, then, “Alright, if you say so.”

She looks up squinting at the sky, he looks over at her to catch a glimpse of her face and make sure its ok. She has a small bruise on the side of her right eye. He frowns not bothering to ask about that one because he already knew where it came from. She looks down and her hair covers her face again, he was glad the curtain hid the bruise from the therapist; he didn’t want to lie about how it got there.

They keep walking with no money for a bus.

Eventually they make it home to a place neither of them really want to be. He leads the way inside. There’s screaming going on in the kitchen, the usual welcome home for the two. He pushes his sister towards the stairs while calling out, “We’re home!” and letting her make the escape first. The parents were to busy screaming to notice so the two made their way upstairs into their bedrooms, locking their doors behind them.



My brother and I have a horrible family life to be honest. Maybe it’s our fault that we do, I don’t know. I don’t think it’s his fault, it can’t be, he’s to great, but I’m pretty sure I’m partly to blame. I know I’m horrible person, everyone tells me so it has to be true. Besides, no one has saved me…and if no one cares to save me, then I must not be worth it right? I mean…my brother has tried, but he’s almost as broken as I am, but he has people that look after him. I don’t. I probably don’t deserve people like that.



She stretches out on her bed and stares at the ceiling turning on the small radio she has next to her. She takes deep breathes watching the ceiling and rethinking the day. Eventually a fast song started to play and she kicked off her sneakers standing up.

She danced a mix of ballet and hip-hop and while she did reality fell away. She couldn’t think of anything except the music and her body. She turns the volume up as loud is it can go and uses her window as a mirror the dark evening reflecting her and her bedroom.

A fist pounds on her door but she’s too far into her world of music to notice it.



I took up dance a long time ago. When I was three I loved to dance around my room singing to songs that the kids sung at school. As I got older I managed to get my hands on CDs and a radio. Dancing always got me through, no matter how much I hurt; I could always dance away the pain. I know I’m good at it too, I know I don’t need lessons. The only one who’s ever seen me dance however was my real dad, Jasper, my mom, and once my step dad though I didn’t actually want him to see.

My dream is to be a dancer but I don’t really believe I’ll ever be able to get there from here.



The fist keeps pounding and the doorknob jiggles until the crappy lock comes undone and the door flies open. The girl jumps and faces the man in the door way wide eyed.

“Turn the fucking music down!” he shouts and the girl winces scrambling to her radio.

The man is of average height and weight for his age, about 33 years. His hair was short brown and he has the smallest beard on his chin. He wears baggy faded jeans and a white t-shirt.

The girl backs away from him biting her lower lip and looking at him like a deer caught in headlights. He takes a step forward and she takes one back. That repeats until her back is against the wall and he stands in front of her. He takes a handful of her hair and pulls her to the door.

She yelps in pain and scrambles to keep up with his long stride as he takes her downstairs. He shoves her hard into the kitchen so she faces the glass door that leads to the back yard. Across the door in red spray paint it says:

Monny Moans For Me

Slut.

The girl stands wide eyed, mouth dropped open. The man pushes her again letting her bang into the door. She bites her lip. “Clean that the fuck up you whore,” he growls.

She swallows hard and nods walking over to the closet to find Windex and a rag. Then she goes outside, closes the door, and starts scrubbing the paint off.



I didn’t fully understand why everyone hated me. I used to be ok…back when my real father was around and my mom was happy. My family wasn’t exactly happy but they were at least ok. The kids at school didn’t really like me but they didn’t hate me either.

Then my father died. My mom began whoring herself and drinking to ease the pain of a broken heart, that’s when the rumors at school started. Then to make matters even worse my mom got married. How she could possibly fall in love with that man was beyond me, though he did seem nicer before he moved in.

Once he got here he became abusive, not so much to my mother as to my brother and I but still. He was a horrible man who did horrible things but my mother was afraid and stupid enough to believe he loved her. My brother and I didn’t know who to turn to so we kept to ourselves. The kids at school didn’t understand. I didn’t understand either really, I didn’t know what was so wrong with me but I hated myself for it.



The girl was kneeling in the backyard scrubbing the window weakly when the boy came down stairs into the kitchen. He got himself a glass of water, turned, and saw her sitting out there. He set the glass down on the table and opened the door stepping outside.

She looks up at him pathetically.

He crouches down next to her and takes the rag scrubbing the rest of the paint off the window himself.

She thanks him quietly and he helps her up. The two go inside again and she gets herself a drink. Leaning against the counter he takes a sip of his drink and asks, “So, what did it say?”

She lets her hair fall in a curtain around her face and doesn’t answer him.

“Monica…you can’t ignore me.”

She sighs lightly, “It doesn’t matter what it said.”

“If it doesn’t matter then you should be able to tell me.”

“Monny moans for me, slut.”

He clenches his fists, “I’m going to kill him.”

“Kill who Jasper you don’t even know who did it.”

“I’ll find out.”

She rolls her eyes, drops her glass in the sink, and drags herself back up to her room.