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An Essay On Narrative Point Of View
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My frail fingers graze the tender bruises trailing down my thighs as I try to ignore the constant throbbing in my skull. I stand timidly in front of a fragile, pale girl. Her limbs are black and blue twigs, shaking with desperation. She bears smoky grey eyes glossy with fear and raven locks that mimic her exasperation. I raise my right hand, barely making a fist but trembling at the attempt. My already wounded knuckles strikes the glass reflection and it shatters. The shards of glass collapsing to the tiles below brings me superficial satisfaction as I watch my knuckles split open and blood begins to pour out. There is no pain. No grief. No fear.
A scream catches in my throat as the door to the confined motel bathroom breaks open and he stands
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Thick scars cover me as a reminder from him that I should stop trying. My most recent effort was months ago and I did not even make it out the taut open window before he dragged me back to hell. The agony immediately following caused my defiance to dissolve. But this time feels different. This time I feel hope buried in the most secluded parts of myself blooming. Optimism surfaces as I make the hasty decision and swing my aching legs over the side of the bed and head towards the door. I have no possessions to gather besides the torn black dress lying on the floor. I feel electricity pulsing through my skin as I warily twist the metal doorknob. He always locks the door from the outside, keeping me from ever escaping him. As the door swings open, the soft wind wraps me in a blanket of warmth. Stepping onto the damp cement patio, I sense the cold stone on every part of my calloused feet. My extremities tingle at the new senses. Rediscovering nature and the opportunities that it carries causes my heart to catch fire. I begin to walk, not caring that the gravel is painful against my raw feet. My mind races as I try remember how to breathe. As I exhale, an uncontrollable smile plasters itself to my face. I will the futile girl in the mirror to evaporate from my body, remaining trapped in the shards of glass still on the bathroom floor. The warm sun burns across my back as the pace of my steps increase. The birds
In today’s society not many people realize that they are thankful to wake up and live another day. Just imagine being lost at night in an area you are completely unfamiliar with. Imagine it being cold, and you having no clothing. You don’t have any money and you are starving. Now, all your ears hear are the screams of the one’s around you being killed. To add to the torture, you are unable to control your next move, nor the next. There is constant death, starvation, and suffering happening all around you, but you cannot do anything to help the situation besides fending for yourself to survive. This is the devastating and cruel world that Chanrithy Him’s When Broken Glass Floats introduces to its readers.
When one thinks of war they think of one side attacking the other, but in this war we spend much of our time in damp, muddy trenches, which smell of sewage and rotting corpses. The sun is high so we all lay low in the trenches to avoid sniper fire. So I sit and rest enjoying the break, using the time to clean my bolt-action rifle. My fellow brothers-in-arms are busy taking care of everyday tasks such as personal hygiene or writing letters home.
As I inched my way toward the cliff, my legs were shaking uncontrollably. I could feel the coldness of the rock beneath my feet when my toes curled around the edge in one last futile attempt at survival. My heart was racing like a trapped bird, desperate to escape. Gazing down the sheer drop, I nearly fainted; my entire life flashed before my eyes. I could hear stones breaking free and fiercely tumbling down the hillside, plummeting into the dark abyss of the forbidding black water. The trees began to rapidly close in around me in a suffocating clench, and the piercing screams from my friends did little to ease the pain. The cool breeze felt like needles upon my bare skin, leaving a trail of goose bumps. The threatening mountains surrounding me seemed to grow more sinister with each passing moment, I felt myself fighting for air. The hot summer sun began to blacken while misty clouds loomed overhead. Trembling with anxiety, I shut my eyes, murmuring one last pathetic prayer. I gathered my last breath, hoping it would last a lifetime, took a step back and plun...
The night was tempestuous and my emotions were subtle, like the flame upon a torch. They blew out at the same time that my sense of tranquility dispersed, as if the winds had simply come and gone. The shrill scream of a young girl ricocheted off the walls and for a few brief seconds, it was the only sound that I could hear. It was then that the waves of turmoil commenced to crash upon me. It seemed as though every last one of my senses were succumbed to disperse from my reach completely. As everything blurred, I could just barely make out the slam of a door from somewhere alongside me and soon, the only thing that was left in its place was an ominous silence.
“No!” I protested. “It’s very light.” I said lifting it up. “Let’s fight!” I yelled and he charged at me. We both struck with the swords and met in an “X” in the middle and they had made a loud crack sound, like a piece of broken glass scratching against a blackboard. My arms shivered and sent multiple shocks of sharp stabbing pain up my arms.
11:14 p.m.-I slowly ascend from my small wooden chair, and throw another blank sheet of paper on the already covered desk as I make my way to the door. Almost instantaneously I feel wiped of all energy and for a brief second that small bed, which I often complain of, looks homey and very welcoming. I shrug off the tiredness and sluggishly drag my feet behind me those few brief steps. Eyes blurry from weariness, I focus on a now bare area of my door which had previously been covered by a picture of something that was once funny or memorable, but now I can't seem to remember what it was. Either way, it's gone now and with pathetic intentions of finishing my homework I go to close the door. I take a peek down the hall just to assure myself one final time that there is nothing I would rather be doing and when there is nothing worth investigating, aside from a few laughs a couple rooms down, I continue to shut the door.
I would shut my eyes because I knew what was coming. And before I shut my eyes, I held my breath, like a swimmer ready to dive into a deep ocean. I could never watch when his hands came toward me; I only patiently waited for the harsh sound of the strike. I would always remember his eyes right before I closed my own: pupils wide with rage, cold, and dark eyebrows clenched with hate. When it finally came, I never knew which fist hit me first, or which blow sent me to my knees because I could not bring myself to open my eyes. They were closed because I didn’t want to see what he had promised he would never do again. In the darkness of my mind, I could escape to a paradise where he would never reach me. I would find again the haven where I kept my hopes, dreams, and childhood memories. His words could not devour me there, and his violence could not poison my soul because I was in my own world, away from this reality. When it was all over, and the only thing left were bruises, tears, and bleeding flesh, I felt a relief run through my body. It was so predictable. For there was no more need to recede, only to recover. There was no more reason to be afraid; it was over. He would feel sorry for me, promise that it would never happen again, hold me, and say how much he loved me. This was the end of the pain, not the beginning, and I believed that everything would be all right.
We all remember these grey gloomy days filled with a feeling of despair that saddens the heart from top to bottom. Even though, there may be joy in one’s heart, the atmosphere turns the soul cold and inert. Autumn is the nest of this particular type of days despite its hidden beauty. The sun seems foreign, and the nights are darker than usual enveloped by a thrill that generates chills to travel through the spine leaving you with a feeling of insecurity. Nevertheless, the thinnest of light will always shine through the deepest darkness; in fact, darkness amplifies the beauty and intensity of a sparkle. There I found myself trapped within the four walls of my house, all alone, surrounded by the viscosity of this type of day. I could hear some horrifying voices going through my mind led by unappealing suicidal thought. Boredom had me encaged, completely at its mercy. I needed to go far away, and escape from this morbid house which was wearing me down to the grave. Hope was purely what I was seeking in the middle of the city. Outside, the air was heavy. No beautifully rounded clouds, nor sunrays where available to be admired through the thick grey coat formed by the mist embedded in the streets. Though, I felt quite relieved to notice that I was not alone to feel that emptiness inside myself as I was trying to engage merchant who shown similar “symptoms” of my condition. The atmosphere definitely had a contagious effect spreading through the hearts of every pedestrian that day. Very quickly, what seemed to be comforting me at first, turned out to be deepening me in solitude. In the city park, walking ahead of me, I saw a little boy who had long hair attached with a black bandana.
My hand shaking at every thought, a cold shiver ran down my spine as cold sweat trickled down the side of my forehead. I lifted my hand up and a strong smell hit my nose, it was the smell of blood. I lifted the object and shock hit me like lightening, fear displaced my sadness, sickness changed my bloodstream from blood to a thick liquid pus and vomit. I held the muscle with my right hand as my left hand was paralysed with shock. The adrenaline shot me forcing me to move but shock shattered me into thin slices that were impossible to put back again.
My trembling hands clutch the crinkled bed sheets. They tighten their grasp as I slowly lift my eyelids and bring myself back to reality. A haze shields my vision. As I attempt to raise my head, a chain suffocates me, dragging my body back onto the hospital bed. My fingers swiftly crawl up my chest, recklessly clinging to my neck, trying to identify the restraint. A neck brace. Now that I take a look at my broken body, I see a several layers of bandaged tapes, with crimson marks seeping through, covering my injured arms and bruised legs. I wince at the thought of blood and slip back into unconscious.
My fingers clench the rough table, knuckles white from brute force. I close my eyes as the unforgiving sun glares at me clouding my vision and I ask myself, yet again, for the umpteenth time the reason...
It was a dreadful afternoon, big droplets of rain fell directly on my face and clothes. I tasted the droplets that mixed with my tears, the tears I cried after the incident. The pain in my foot was excruciating. It caused me to make a big decision of whether I should visit you or not. I decided I would. I limped towards my bright, blue car where my bony, body collapsed onto the seat. I started the engine up but at the same time being cautious of my bleeding foot. I then drove to the destination where I was bound to meet you. I was bound to meet you after three years of counselling from my last appearance with you. I guess all I can remember is the scarring....
OUCH! My leg crippled with pain. I tried to shuffle my way to the window, but it was excruciating. As my senses kicked back in, I felt pains shooting up and down my body. Peering down at my hands I screamed. My hands were covered in cold, congealed blood.
are in danger of being exposed to vagueness of approach such as unnecessary repetition aimless and pointless writing. It is not always possible to fulfill all the conditions below, nut the more they are fulfilled, the better the students write successfully (Bright. 1970. P. 141-144)
I climbed the steps the rotting front door and pushed it open with both hands. The smell of damp engulfed me as I stepped over the threshold and clumps of ash were pumped into the air as I continued onto the carpet. As I passed through, I traced my hands on the familiar wallpaper before placing my hands on the shiny doorknob to the kitchen. I twisted it, listening to the scratching of...