The Unwanted Birthmark

Growing up, I never stood out. I wasn’t the prettiest, the most athletic or the smartest but I had one thing that stuck out: my birthmark. It was like I accidently drew a sharpie on my left cheek, permanently stuck to my face. It isn’t big but it’s dark and noticeable, making me want to tear it off and throw it away.
None of my classmates had birthmarks clearly visible which made me feel angry and alone, as if I was the chosen one to be given all these flaws, causing me to become an introvert, resulting in my avoidance of hanging out with friends, going swimming or playing sports. Surrounded by beautiful girls, I constantly hid with my hair. I would analyze my face in the mirror, finding different ways to hide it. I avoided going outside as the wind would expose me, feeling naked, and ugly and even contemplated on getting surgery at the age of nine because it mentally destroyed me.
One day, my mom came into my bedroom, showing me magazine pictures of models with birthmarks, all with different shades, sizes, shapes and some covering their whole bodies in order to convince me that beautiful people have birthmarks too, and that it’s part of their identity. But I was not convinced, at least not yet. I still hid with my hair, despite the oiliness that caused breakouts along my cheeks, I did not want to move my hair, it was my shield, it was my savior.
When the transition of middle school came around, I accidently exposed my secret. During math class, I slid my hair too much to the side that was in my eyes, while my friend, Cassandra spotted my birthmark. She then told me I had dirt on my face and attempted to wipe it away. When it didn’t, she replied with a bit of confusion, “oh… uh never mind there’s no dirt”.
That day, I cried in bed endlessly. My parents found me sobbing under my bed covers and comforted me. Once I retold what happened, they tried telling me that my friends will not think differently of me and that I am still beautiful. My stubborn self still didn’t believe them.
A couple weeks later, my mom called me to the living room. As I entered the room, her finger and eyes pointed towards the TV screen that was broadcasting the news. I was confused of the relevance, but later realized they were interviewing a middle-aged woman; dark skin, maroon eyes and multiple bumps surrounding her face. Her lips seemed oddly shaped, puffy as if she had gotten an allergic reaction from a bee sting, but what surprised me the most was not those features, not the cheeks that were all disformed, but learning that the cause was by a gun shot of her abusive husband. She shows the camera man her before picture, smiling and happy, back to her now distorted face, unrecognizable from the picture that was on her night side table. As she started to speak, her words hit me.
“Even though I do not look like who I was before, I am still grateful to be alive. My appearance means nothing to me, I’m just happy I was given another chance to live once again,” the woman adds proudly.
Due to this bright woman, who suffered and almost lost her life, I realized appearance doesn’t matter. People are living in danger and innocent people are dying while I’m letting this little birthmark control my life. So, I accepted my birthmark from then on.
After all, its what makes me special.

Baby Factory Company

“We’re busy making your baby brother,” my mother responded as I waited patiently outside their bedroom door. I answered excitedly, “Oh, can I watch?”
That was the day I was convinced by my parents that my soon to be born brother was finally going to arrive, but I always came to the outrageous conclusion that babies were made in factories. The day I realized I misunderstood the process of a newborn was the day my parents told me they were “busy” after two years worth of nagging for a baby brother. As a curious 7-year-old, I questioned them. They told me they were “making” my baby brother which in my wacky mind translated to “We are building your new baby brother with parts from the Baby Factory Company!” My naïve child self convinced me that my parents were “building” him with pieces from the Baby Factory Company and that it would arrive quicker than an amazon package. I thought the process would take an hour since its just pieces being put together with a light sprinkle of magic powder to make it come alive, but they never presented me my gift. I, therefore, persistently nagged for a brother like a bratty child wanting the new popular toy of the year and told them I would be disappointed if I got a baby sister.
My mother then responded with drooping eyes, “You know honey, I can’t decide which gender the baby is”.
I looked at her confused, “What do you mean? You asked me what I wanted, and I told you, I wanted a baby brother! Can’t you just tell the manager?”
“The manager?” my mom replied with confusion.
“Yes, the manager from the Baby Factory Company! They can help you find the parts to build him!”
My mom laughed with her head thrown backwards as if she were told there were aliens on Mars, but it wasn’t a joke at that time, I was serious! My mom then motions towards her big belly which I assumed was simply due to overeating but later learned it was my brother in her stomach. What is this madness, how can she carry a human in her belly like a kangaroo? This isn’t right! How is the baby going to come out? It’s going to kill her! My worried face translated to her and she explained to me that this is how I was born, and that her big belly wasn’t due to her voracious appetite or her grumpiness wasn’t due to her excessive tiredness, but the growing formation of my new baby brother! I decided to tell my classmates this crazy fact that I discovered, then Samantha, one of my classmates, responds, making me sound like a fool.
“Where did you think babies come from? Our parents had to have sex in order to have us then we come out of our mom’s you know…”
My face went pale, “Did you just say…s..ex?
“Yes… we’ll learn more about it in sex-ed. My parents told me early though. They thought it was best that I know now rather than later.”
From that day, I lost naivety.
But at least I got a baby brother!

The Artist

A young boy sits at the back of the classroom doodling on his notebook. His math teacher, Mr. Radford, calls on the young boy to answer a question written on the board. Confused and stunned by the sudden call of his name, the boy looks up lost as if he had been woken up from a beautiful dream and forced to be snapped back into reality. Mr. Radford approaches the boy slowly, his foot tapping against the floor, matching the rhythm of the boy’s heartbeat. Noticing the notebook tucked underneath the boy’s arms, Mr. Radford snatches it and raises it up in the air in front of the class.
“This ladies and gentlemen is what a failing student does, doodling crappy art in my class,” he announces. The class bursts into a riot of laughter.
The boy sits there quietly, fists clenched and tears welling up in his eyes. Mr Radford glares at him with a smirk across his face. The notebook that stayed clenched in Mr Radford’s hand was soon thrown into the garbage can that sat next to his desk. The boy gasps, jumping out of his seat to retrieve it but is pushed down by the hands of his professor.
“I’m calling your parents,” Mr Radford declares.
The boy sits there, stunned by the sudden and unexpected direct contact.
It was lunch time when the boy’s parents come to have a meeting with the principal, Mr Stephens. His father, looking far from sober, puffy bags under his frowning eyes, and his mother, appearing upset and annoyed with creases forming across her forehead, enters the office with the boy sitting in one of the cushioned chairs, his head tilted, twirling his fingers. Mr. Radford sits across the room near Mr. Stephens.
“Your son here seems to be distracted in his classes, especially math class,” states Mr. Stephens.
“How so?” questions his father.
“He seems to be drawing in all of his classes,” replies Mr. Radford while glancing at the young boy, smiling.
“Ah yes, that seems like a problem. We will make sure that our son will not be given anymore notebooks, so he can focus on his academics,” replies his mother, nodding proudly.
The boy’s jaw drops, shocked. He can’t simply have his notebook taken away.
As the conversation between the principal and his parents come to an end, he asks if he can go use the bathroom before heading home. They allow him to do so. Making his way towards the bathroom, he passes by Mr Radford’s classroom noticing a light shimmer in his desk. He twists the door knob. Unlocked. As he runs quickly towards his desk, he finds his notebook, but not as he wanted it to be retrieved. It was ripped. Pages torn apart, some unrecognizable to the original art he had produced. For he had no time to cry at this very moment, he quickly wipes his tears with his sleeve and shoves the notebook under his leather jacket, running back to his parents.
Heading back home, he places the notebook on his desk, taping some of the paper pieces together. Eraser marks covers his desk, broken lead tips and blisters forms along his fingers from the constant sharpening, as he continues to draw until there were no more blank spaces. The boy draws until he falls asleep.
The next day, the boy arrives at school, secretly sliding out the notebook from his backpack and placing it into his locker. Closing the locker door, he is met with a hand, grabbing the hood of his sweater from behind and throws him to the ground. It was one of his classmates, Mathew, accompanied by his other friends.
“You aren’t allowed to carry this thing around with you, we may as well tell Mr. Radford,” he threatens while taking the notebook and raising it up in the air like Mr. Radford had done.
“No, you can’t do that! It’s mine!” the boy shouts, jumping up to reach for it.
As Mathew and his other friends laugh, a man grabs the notebook from his hand, making Mathew and the other boys run away. It was Mr. Stephens, the art teacher. Everyone feared him; his face is emotionless with stern eyes that feels like he is staring into your soul. The boy gulps. Staring at the notebook he held, he starts to flip through the pages, his eyes widening every page turn. It was a flip book, filled with drawings of the young boy himself drawing.
“You did this?” Mr. Stephens asks stunned.
“Y-yes I did. Are you going to take it away?” the boy asks nervously.
“Of course not, you are quite gifted, keep doing what you are doing and don’t stop. I can see a bright future ahead of you.”
As Mr. Stephens hands back the notebook to the boy, he places a small notebook on top of his own. The boy stares at it confused.
“Here’s another notebook for you to continue your journey,” says the man.

The Hand that Opened my Eyes

Crunching my soles on the fallen, yellow leaves, dead yet vibrant, I spot a middle-aged man hunched in his oversized stained jacket. His desperate gray eyes hook with mine, gravitating my direction towards him. One steady foot at a time across the cracked, damp pavement, my dry mouth finds the strength to say hi. The curves of his lips does not correlate with the rest of his face, including his soulless eyes, as he lifts his hands cupped together towards me. With nothing but garbage bags for food and a couple pennies laying next to him, I attempt to scramble through my bare pockets. Without any luck of making something appear, I reply to the man: “I’m really sorry, I don’t have any money with me, I promise I’ll come back tomorrow”.
The stranger looks at me, this time with his eyes smiling and replies, “No need to do that, I would just like your hand.”
“My hand?”
“Yes, your hand.”
I place my pale hand against his cold palms, as his grasp presses against mine. He then adds, “Your warmth is good enough for me.”
Crouching next to the man on the sidewalk, he begins to ask more about me: “Are you alone? Where’s your parents?”
“I got in a fight with my mom and dad, my mom cheated on him and I don’t want to see her anymore. So, I ran away from home.”
”Did you at least ask her why?”
“There’s no need to ask her why! She cheated! I never want to see her again!”
The man looked at me with drooping eyes, feeling pity for me, as if he were my guidance counsellor: “But, she’s your mother, she raised you and still loves you. She still wants to see you, she must feel horrible for making you upset and I’m sure she has a reason. You should go speak to her, you can’t avoid her forever.”
“I can’t do that, she will never change my mind. She hurt dad! We will never be a happy family because of her.”
His hand that still connected with mine moves towards my right shoulder.
“But you should at least be grateful they are still in your lives. Even though they may live separately, they will continue to be in your heart, supporting you just like they did on day one of your birth. Those memories you had with both of them will continue to grow even if it takes place in two different homes, it’s just not the same way you are used to it being.” He replied.
Despite his attempt of having a positive outlook, his sad eyes spoke otherwise, as if he were talking about his own parents being divorced.
“So what about you?” I ask curiously. “Where’s your family?”
His gaze turned towards the concrete: “My family? They left me. My wife cheated on me too, took my home, my money and full custody of our daughter. My daughter was only eight when I had to leave her. My wife didn’t let me see her.”
“Did you try speaking to your wife?”
“I did, but as I approached her, she threatened to call the police if she ever saw me again. She didn’t even let me say one last goodbye to Isabelle.”
“Isabelle?”
“That’s my daughter’s name”
Sliding his cracked hands through his front pocket, he pulls out a faded photo of a girl. She was laughing with her light blond hair hugging her innocent doll face.
“This is Isabelle, I love her so very much. I used to pick her up every day after school, then one day, she wasn’t there. I learned that it was my wife who had taken her, telling me that I wasn’t allowed to see her again and that she met someone else.”
Even though his voice quivered, he shed no tear for he had already cried endlessly told by his dark, pronounced, red veins in his eyes. My hand remained in his grasp for the remainder of the hours that had passed and soon I had to leave. I pull my hand slowly from his grasp, hesitant to let go. I wave good bye and head back home where would lay my sobbing father. The next morning, I hug my dad and head out the door. I walk towards the same area, excited to speak to the man who I now called my friend. I had packed two lunch boxes for both him and me and some cash stashed for the promise I had made last night. Crossing the side walk, I spot him. A rush of adrenaline and panic swallows me while my lunch boxes drop to the ground, and I run.
I sprint towards the man as he lays motionless on the sidewalk, while he drags his body towards the street. As I approach him, desperately pulling him away from the death rail of speeding cars, I notice cigar marks that had pierced through his skin along his arms and neck. He whimpers as I try to communicate with him:
“What happened? Please tell me, let me help you.”
“It.. it was these kids, they…they.. p..punched and k…kicked me. They stole all my belongings and burned me with their cigars. One of t..them crumpled my photo of Isabelle, I n..need it.
His shaking/weak finger pointed towards the crumpled piece of paper that landed dead centre of the roads with fast moving cars.
“I’ll get it don’t worry” I replied.
“No!! I’ll get it myself… you stay here”, he protested.
“No… please I’ll…” just before I could stop him, he crawls for the photo as bright lights hit him.
I scream for help.
Sitting in the waiting room felt like hours as I waited to see him. Not only was the wait painful, the environment was depressing/intoxicating. Nurses running back and forth to help sick patients, cries of families in the waiting rooms and limp bodies on stretchers being pulled in to the surgery room. Five hours had passed and finally a nurse comes out of the room with saddened eyes, sighing. Unable to make eye contact with me, she ask me how I am related to him. asks me what relation I have with him. I tell her, I’m just a friend who saw him get hit. Who witnessed the incident.
“I’m sorry, but your friend will not make it. His neck and spine are severely damaged, it unfortunately cannot be repaired.” The nurse stated.
“Can I see him?” I strain the words as I desperately hold in my tears.
“Does he have any family?”
“No, he’s all alone, he has been living on the streets for quite some time.”
“Ok, follow me.”
As I follow the nurse, I see the man, lying on a bed, sore and weak yet still smiling when he sees me.
He takes my hand once I approach closer and asks: “I never got to know your name?”
“My name is Julia.”
“Julia… That’s a lovely name. My name is Grant by the way. It’s a pleasure to have met you.”
My tears start to flow uncontrollably along my cheeks. He leans slightly forward, groaning in pain as his rough thumbs wipe my tears away.
“I’m sorry this happened to you, I promise everything will get better.” I tell him, while placing the crumpled photo of Isabelle in his hand.
“It already has.” He replies with one last full smile.
His heart monitor comes to a stop, filling the cold silence with a beep, but our grasp with his daughter in his hands remains together/clasped.
That same day, with my cheeks soaked like a sponge filled with tears, I head towards the rows of houses, spotting the red house with the gray door and the familiar mailbox that hung to the side like it always did as I was a child, my right knuckle contacts the door.
The door opens, greeted with a soft voice of confusion: “Julia?”
“Mom, let’s go out for ice cream.”

The Red Stain

Have you ever had that feeling of having your guts ripped out, hands strangling your insides or a fist jabbing a deep wound? That ladies and gentlemen is what I experience as a young female every month. Periods are not only excruciatingly painful and uncomfortable, but it also stains your clothing if you do not have proper protection or if you are simply not prepared. I unfortunately learned that the hard way.
While my parents and I were hiking through unfamiliar trails out in the woods, with my parents capturing memories with the flash of their cameras, and my brother throwing rocks through bushes, I felt a sudden sharp pain in my lower abdomen. A direct signal was sent straight to my brain, decrypting the code: my period was coming. I thought I could manage the pain as exercise was a great way to relive the tension in my stomach, but boy was I wrong. Due to my mother’s genetics, herself as a sufferer through agonizing stomach aches and the occasional faints, my period also flooded like a constant river, unable to stop by the force of the current. The grumbling of my stomach disrupted my concentration as I desperately attempted to ignore the pain, focusing my gaze on the birds that flew through the sky and my own shoes that dragged itself limply, leaving skidding marks along the dirt.
Later, after walking for about an hour, my stomach pain increased significantly, and I began to crouch like an ape, walking slowly and sloppily. My aunt took first notice of my unusual caveman stance and knew I had gotten my period. She handed me some of her water, which only caused more cramps to form as if needles were pinning me like a voodoo doll. What helped was the cool air that hugged my warm face, however, eyes of strangers and kids’ fingers followed me as I walked. Trying to understand what caught their attention, besides my odd gorilla stance, I accidently swiped my hand against the back of my pants, feeling dampness. I immediately panicked. Even though I had a pad, my period completely soaked through it and went through my jeans! My mom eventually noticed the red stain that now matched the tone of my skin. Despite the chilly environment, my mom, ever so kindly, handed me her gray knit sweater to tie around my waist.
Whispers and light snickers started to form around me, causing my mouth to become dry as they watched me tie the sweater, shielding the humiliation. The licking of my lips and keeping my head down to calm me had no match against the heat of embarrassment that overwhelmed me. I avoided the eyes that wondered from my tomato cheeks towards my damp red stained jeans. I had only one choice, to ask my parents if I could go to the bathroom. They allowed me to diverge into the wilderness towards the public washrooms located near the entrance, with a toxic smell lingering through the air, making me more nauseous. My stomach was dying to eat and was screaming desperately for an Advil. As I sat down in the bathroom stall, I couldn’t move. I spend almost thirty minutes in the bathroom, hoping for the pain to subside. A couple minutes later, foot steps echoed through the concrete floors followed by a knock on my door. It was my aunt. She wanted to know if I was ok. As I came out of the bathroom stall, telling her I’m fine, I headed back outside with her to continue the hike. Five more minutes passed, my brother soon got tired and collapsed into my mother’s arms. My dad carried him to the car while the rest of us followed along. Finally, we headed back home. What a lovely ending to this horrific story.

The Mansion

It was pitch black with a light hint of stars peeking through the moonlight ocean skies. Leaves crawled through the flow of the wind against the damp pavement, street lights flickering, whispering a hello to whoever they see, and the faint shadows of crows eating leftover scraps on the street. Trailing through the blackened pathway, I am companied by some classmates: Casper, Sara, James and Marissa. Halloween is two days away; therefore, our grade nine teacher assigned us to create a video project that involved producing a scary movie for her twisted amusement. Casper, the adventurous risk taker and scary book lover, crazily sets the idea to film in the abandoned mansion that lived a couple blocks from his home. A voice screamed “stay away” in my head whenever I would glance at it, but the others were convinced it would be a great opportunity for earning bonus marks for filming in an eerie location. As decided, we make our way towards the mansion.
Approaching the mansion, I take a big gulp. A large door appears in front of my eyes, sealed with a metal lock, along with broken windows, appearing as angry eyes. Despite the lack of natural light, the mansion appeared to be a dark gray, stained by what seemed like old wood paint, and was as silent as a graveyard. James, the handy man, takes his toothpick that was dangling out of his mouth like a cowboy stripped out from a black and white movie, and slides it through the hole of the lock. As the door creaks open, our curious eyes lands on the giant chandelier that hangs above us covered in dust and spiders. I shiver. The place is covered in cobwebs and has an intoxicating smell that lingers through the room while swallowed in darkness. My blind hands attempt to search for the light switch along the peeling pieces of wallpaper with no luck. James, thankfully, hands me and Marissa one flashlight that he stored in his backpack, and keeps the other for him, Sara and Casper. Our shoes echoes through the unfamiliar halls as me and Marissa try to find a room to film. As we both make our way into an old office room, with my camera clenched in my hand and my flashlight in the other, Marissa asks to use the bathroom that is located a couple rooms down in the bedroom we passed. I nod in approval. Why would she want to use a dead person’s bathroom? I wouldn’t touch anything if I were her.
Fifteen minutes pass. Marissa doesn’t return. I wait. Five more minutes pass. Still no sight of her. Where could she be? I get up from the broken chair I was resting on and head towards the bedroom. As I enter the bedroom, I duck in terror by the swoop of flying bats. I hate bats. The room was cold and clean, bed perfectly made as if no one ever came into the room. I check the bathroom. But Marissa wasn’t in the bathroom. Suddenly, I hear a scream. A girl’s scream. I sprint down the spiral staircases, one of my shoes misses a step and I trip down the stairs, landing on my left arm, dropping my flashlight and camera. I groan in pain, grab for my items quickly and limp towards the dining room that was nearby where I am greeted with big, red letters written across gray walls: YOU SHOULDN’T HAVE COME HERE. Panicking, I spin around, and a face appears in front of me.
“AHHH!!” I take my camera and slam it against the figures face. Before I can escape, the figure grabs my arms and starts to talk. It was a male’s voice.
“Stop! Oh my gosh, stop it! What’s the matter with you?”

It was Casper.
“You scared me!” I exclaimed, my lips shaking.
“I’m sure I did, based on the way that you screamed,” he laughs, in a mockingly way while rubbing his sore nose.
Annoyed and frightened, I motion my shaking finger towards the bloody words. Instead of panicking like any person would, Casper studies it carefully.
“It’s red paint, it’s just to scare us off,” he replies calmly.
“But the paint is wet, that means someone is in here!” I exclaim, panicking.
“Don’t worry, maybe it was some teenagers that were fooling around.”
While arguing with Casper, sounds of banging doors from upstairs startles us. Each door closes one by one. Casper’s amused face turns pale. We sprint down the halls, unsure of where to go, just knowing we had to get out of here fast. Adrenaline fills our shaken bodies as we sprint down the halls, then music starts to play, like a mother singing a lullaby to her baby. We both make a turn down the halls, then a door slams right in front of us. We quickly make another left turn. Finally, we find ourselves reach the giant chandelier. The living room. We run inside and find Sara and James having a pillow fight with old cushions that laid on the torn sofa.
“You guys,” I gasp, “I think someone is in here, and Marissa is gone.”
They both look at me and Casper confused, “What do you mean?”
Screeching noises and a giant shadow of a claw, far from human, covers the ceilings of the living room. All of us scream and run towards the big door. There was another lock covered in hardened candle wax, its chains wrapped around the large door handles that was nonexistent at the time we entered. The old sofa where Sara and James were once having a pillow fight is thrown across the room, slamming against the walls aimed at me and Casper as we dive towards the other side of the room, falling against the wooden floor. James then takes his camera and slams it against the lock, breaking pieces of candle wax. A chair is then thrown, aiming for James, ducking just in time as it smashes against the door. After a few hits, the candle wax finally breaks. James quickly takes his toothpick stored in his pocket, unlocks it and we are set free.
As we run out of the house, Casper pale as a ghost and Sara crying, I spot Marissa standing outside near a bus stop. I clench my fist. She must have faked this.
“I can’t believe you faked all this, this isn’t a joke. What did we ever do to you?” I question in anger, demanding for an answer.
Marissa sits there silently, her face expressionless. “I’m talking to you! Why did you do it!?”
A bus comes towards her direction. It drives past her, and her figure is gone.