text: Hi! Here's a short little thing I wrote a moment ago. Please take in mind I am a complete ametur and have little writing experience given my young age of only fourteen. I hope this does not sway your opinion of my writing, and I sincerely hope you enjoy. Also, please tell me what you think in the comments. I would throughly enjoy reading them and taking your critique. Constructive criticism only please. Ego is a rather fragile thing and I would prefer to keep mine in tact for the time being. With that being said, enjoy my story. She knew from the moment she had turned the doorknob something was wrong. There was a feeling--a sudden dread if you will--that enveloped her. As she walked through the threshold, she found her passage difficult. She felt as if she were passing through a viscous wall of heed. Like her body, her soul, her mind--was preventing her from entering the room. It's funny, actually, how our minds will do such things to us. The situation is not dissimilar to that of a mother pressing her child against her hip when she feels uneasy, as if someone--or something-- would harm the child, a child she had conceived a child she had given up her freedom to, as if she had signed an allegorical contract upon giving birth. Locked in for life, as one would say, to take care of this thing that is now hers. This thing that is now a part of her, soon to grow into a shadow of herself. The human mind can make us feel the same sensation as the child. Something's wrong because my Mother is protecting me. Something is wrong because she believes there is. I must stay away from what she deemes to be unsafe. But, similarly to a child--something she once was--she rebelled against the feeling her mind had eluded her to feel. She couldn't help herself from rebelling. To see why this is something to be protected from. Anyone could assume she wished she had listened to herself. As she entered the room, the smell of death was prominent. She had not noticed it before, although it was clearly strong enough to be smelled from far away. I wonder, she thought, why I couldn't smell this before. She fought with her own sense of smell until she finally convinced herself that it wasn't as bad as she had made it out to be. Of course, it was worse. But she had convinced herself enough to hardly smell it anymore. Her eyes were in the spotlight now, her nose seemingly dulled to leave room for her eyes to be the key sense. Because what she saw could not be unseen. A cliché, of course, but it was true. The sight she had witnessed at that moment would scar her. It would make her wish she was in the place of what she was seeing. Not mangled and brutally beaten, blood obscuring any features, any human identification vaguely recognizable--if not completely erased. No. She wished she had been released like the person in front of her. She wished she didn't have to see the unsightly scene. She wished she was dead.