Can someone please give me ideas with this story? Thank you!?

“Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never hurt me.”

“What idiot came up with that one?” I laugh a fake, dry laugh.

I wipe my face on my shirt and crawl into my bed.

The yelling resonates through the house. I can hear each sharp, cold word she spits.

The cries of my sisters, desperate and helpless.

The futile pleas of my father. Our hopeless peacemaker.

I curse the paper thin walls and turn on my radio.

Welcome to a usual Saturday night at my house. Or, after 6 years, that’s what it feels like to me. When I was a little girl, I used to sit and cry in my room, trying to find reason in it all. I desperately tried and tried to come up with ways to be a better child. I blamed myself for all of my mother’s problems.

Now, staring at the ceiling, I am just sick and tired of it. If I have to hear what a rotten daughter I am one more time, I swear, I’ll throw up.

I hate this two-faced person she’s become. One second, she’s your best friend…the next, the one who haunts your dreams. She can be the best mom in the world; that is why it hurts so much.

I’ve become prone to whiplash.

I take my diary out from under my matress and turn to the back to scan over my faded checklist.

“Suggest she get some help.”

I glance down at the five slender bruises on my forearm and cross it out.

I need some more ideas.

I tiptoe over to the computer and turn it on.

Now, how do I go about this?

I type “mood swings”.

Several results pop up.

Bipolar.

I click on it and start to read.

“Bipolar-a major affective disorder in which an individual alternates between states of deep depression and extreme elation.”

I scroll down.

“Type two”.

“Symptoms- mood swings. Manic episodes. Depression. Decreased energy. Weight loss or gain. Irritability Uncontrollable crying.”

I’m no doctor, but she fits the description so well.

Is this for real? Can it really be that easy?

“Bipolar.”

It feels foreign on my tongue.

I sigh and turn off the computer.

I don’t think there is an answer.

More yelling…screaming…cursing…crying.

To the outside world, we’re the perfect family. Perfect parents. Perfect children. It’s an act we’ve practiced since before I can remember. We’ve perfected it over the years. But with it, I am forced to bottle up my emotions. I’m forced to grin and bear it. No one would ever believe me anyway. I wouldn’t believe me if I didn’t live it each day.

Besides, though it can be extremely difficult sometimes, I love the woman cursing us out downstairs. I really, really do.

A crashing sound makes me jump. Pots and being chucked, maybe? Has she broken another drawer? Thrown more things down the stairs? I turn my radio up even louder and close my eyes.

“I WANT AN ANSWER!” floats over the booming music.

Jordan chokes out a response I can’t hear. Apparently, it’s not good enough, because my mom resumes her fake crying act, demanding an answer.

Poor Jordan.

I send good vibes in her direction. A pointless action, I know, but it’s all I can do.

Screaming, screaming, screaming and stomach-turning intensity.

My radio has reached its maximum volume, so I throw the pillow over my head and try to block everything out.

I have almost succeeded when I hear, “CAAMMERRONN!”

So close. I drag myself from the bed to the door.

My heart quickens. I shudder involuntarily.

I shouldn’t be afraid of the woman who gave me life, but here I am at the top of the stairs with goosebumps. I try to rub them away as I carefully make my way down.

“What were you doing?” she demands.

“Nothing.”

“See? Its that (explicit) Jacob again.”

How did Jacob come from nothing??

“You (explicit) pick that (explictit) (explicit) over me every (explicit) time!”

She grips my already bruised arm and throws me against the wall.

My throat feels constricted and I blink back hot tears, biting my tongue to keep a straight face.

This is only the third time she’s used violence, though, I wish she did more often. At least then I’d have a case.

More explicits.

My hands are clenched in fists at my sides.

She always has to be right. Even when she’s wrong, she’s right.

She pretends I’m invisible and begins bad-mouthing me to my dad. He hasn’t moved since I came down. He’s staring blankly at the pile of crumbs my sister is sweeping frantically.

His eyes glassy are glassy and tired.

I try not to listen to what she’s saying to him. She’s pretending like she’s having a private conversation, but I know what she is saying is meant for me to hear.

Keri makes eye contact with me. Empathy is written all over her face. She mouths, “sorry”. I shrug, acting like it’s no big deal, when, really, my heart is boiling inside. She sticks her tongue out to mom’s turned back. If dad sees, he doesn’t say anything. I give her a half smile, but we both know this is no smiling affair.

Mom gets louder and more obnoxious.

She starts in on Jacob again.

I am angry now. My throat feels constricted. My eyes are burning with the tearCan someone please give me ideas with this story? Thank you!?
Wow, you have an amazing talent for writing. You have given some great details, which leads me to believe it is happening to you. A sign of a great writer. I truly hope this is not the way it is in your home. As for a title



Broken Souls

Broken Spirit

Within these Walls

The Hidden Truth



Can not think of another title.Can someone please give me ideas with this story? Thank you!?
That is absolutely outstanding work



WOW that's soo good



Can you please help me with my poem please

I am crying because I am absolutely stuck



http://answers.yahoo.com/question/index?…
I didn't have time to read it all, but, you are an amazing writer.

Thankyou for commenting on my poem x.
sounds like you're off to a good start. There are so many twists and turns this story can take.
wow i can see this has taken you ages, you should get it published, no matter ur age!!!!! i hope this isnt a true story, because if it is (not that i think it is) you or whoever it is should get help. lol