boktjejernamedstil

Not edited (skriven av S. i årskurs 8)

"Alright kids settle down! Settle down!" Our homeroom teacher says and the children walk to their chairs sighing but is quiet. It's the english teacher and he looks awfully happy, and since I know our homeroom teacher is an romanticer, I knew right away where this was going.
"Today we're going to write about our first loves! Grab a paper, a pen and write, who was it, when was it, why did you fall in love etc etc." The teacher started telling about his first love when he was eight with someone named Alicia, after that I pressed the play button on my Mp3 and Nothing else matters by Metallica went on. My first love? I have never fallen in love with a boy before, even though I'm already sixteen and healthy. But, there is someone or something without a shape I fell in love with. I took the pen and started to write about my first and only true love.

I was five when I first fell in love. Or should I start with telling you about my dysfunctional family I was born into? Yes, I shall tell you a little about that first. Just to fill out the paper so I can get an A+ (haha). My father and mother was alcoholics who liked to amuse them self by tormenting me and my baby brother, we were very poor and me and my brother (he never got a name, so I named him Baby) owned no clothes but the torn we were forced to wear day out day in. By the years their drinking became worse, one hit became ten, ten became to many for a child who didn't go to school, to be able to count. Usually they would be careful with puncing the Baby he was to thin and his eyes were sunken, but when he became one they abused him as much as I was. At that time I was four, at least I believe I was, birthdays was something alien to me at that time. My mother would bathe us in icy cold water, maybe it was because we could afford no hot water. For a one year old, starvation, being punched and all the things they did to us were to much. Baby starved to death one year after that. So I had a break down, the Baby was gone, and so was my will to live. So I ran out of the rundown house we were living in, my parents were somewhere burying the Baby. I ran out on the streets, starving, frightened that my parents would find me. I was not allowed to go out, I ran to a dumpster looking after food. Though I did not want to live, dying was not an option either.
"Stupid brother! Stupid stupid Baby brother! I was gonna take care of us, you know! If you could just have waited until I had grown up." I screamed to no one, with silence as answer. And besides death waits for no one, he takes the one he feel like and thats the end of that story. So as I said I run to a dumpster searching food. And there it was. It was smelly, and ugly, yet the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. It was fully working, wich made me sure the angels sent it to me. A guitar. I fell in love for the first time that day, and I have been in love ever since.

But I still suffered even though I had found my one true love. I took it home, playing on it, learning myself. I usually sneaked out to the neighbourhood because on sundays it was a concert there. I learned to plays as the guitarist did. My parents noticed that I did not do as I were told and sneaked out. So the beatings increased, they burned me with cigarettes and a lot of other things. But I did not break! My parents went mad over me playing "that Goddamn guitar" as they said, so they tried to steel it when I fell asleep. But my small thin arms would clutch to it, defend in my sleep by kicking and biting and doing whatever I had to, they had taken one of my Babys from me. But they would never take my freedoom in shape of the guitar. One thay my father smashed my finger with a metal thing, my fingers hurted and felt a bit numb. But I continued to play on my guitar despite the pain, I guess I had come to realize that music is my only salvation.

I became better at playing, and fast! I started to play louder and more confident. I was told that the one who called the police had said: "I know there was two children there once, starving and abused. Now one of them is dead and the other has become someone who screams for help through her beautiful guitar playing."
So I was six when I was adopted to my family I live with today and they who killed Baby got prison. I still visit Baby's grave in the woods once a month. My first love taught me that love has no shape, no real name, no gender and it might smell like garbage and look ugly, but be the prettiest on the inside. Without music, I would not live today, I would not write this story while you, my homeroom teacher, talks about your Alicia. I know that the Baby and angel of music was the one who gave me the guitar that day, and I know I will be fine. For the music is my savor. The Messiah, music simply outshines every boy there is. Sometimes love has no shape, but it might have a sound.