A Call For Help (Revised)

PLEEEEEEEEASE SEND ME ANY COMMENTS OR SUGGESTIONS! I NEED TO TURN THIS IN FOR A GRADE IN ENGLISH CLASS!

Andrea D.
Mrs. Snare
Honors English 17-18
October 25, 2004

A Call for Help

It’s been years since he hit me, so why am I doing this now? I feel queasy as I walk into Room 109. I bite down on my lip, hoping that it will distract me from the task that lay before me. Gradually, the bitter taste of blood seeps into my mouth. I let go of my lip. The aroma of old books fills the air in and around the English Resource Room and the Reading/Writing Lab. I know that my mind will associate the smell with this day for the rest of my life.

Mr. Ebner greets me and leads me to the phone. I sit in a chair which faces the window. The sky, sprinkled with wispy cirrus clouds, is an icy shade of blue. It meets a row of trees which are finally blossoming after months of having to use all their resources just to survive the harsh winter nights. I can see the muddy football field and the green and gold stands where the paint is beginning to chip.

As the light, steady footsteps approach my chair, I attempt to avoid eye contact with Mr. Ebner, who has come to dial the code necessary to call an outside line. I stare at his pristine ebony shoes. My gaze shifts to my own bruised feet which are partially concealed by worn-out black sandals. Through my long and tousled brunette hair I can see Mr. Ebner’s blue shirt and khaki pants heading away from my seat. My heart sinks. Though having him stand next to me makes me nervous, I wish he would stay, for I feel so alone. My clammy fingers tremble as I begin to press the soft, gray keys of the phone. One…eight… I pause. Physical contact with others tends to make me anxious since I have been hurt so badly. However, I find myself suddenly experiencing an unprecedented yearning to be hugged and comforted by another person. Mr. Ebner is sitting just a few feet away, yet I feel so utterly alone.

The room is virtually silent, and I notice that my heart is beating far more loudly than the insults and curses which would erupt from deep within the untamed mouth of the man who hurt me. Zero… Glancing over at Mr. Ebner, I can see his chest rising and falling with every breath he takes, and I realize I have forgotten to exhale for at least thirty seconds. An audible sigh escapes my mouth and Mr. Ebner glances over to make sure I am okay. Zero… I let the cool, dry air enter my lungs and continue to dial. Seven… nine… two… I barely press the buttons. My fingers, moist with a nervous sweat, nearly slip off the keys which are warm and smooth to the touch. Breathing begins to require a great deal of conscious effort. Eight… six… one… zero. I am finally making my call for help. I hear the fuzzy ring of the phone on the other end of the line. There is no turning back now. Suddenly, the ringing stops. A woman on the other end of the line begins to speak in a nonchalant tone. She receives calls like mine every day. I feel insignificant. I force myself to stop analyzing the tone of her voice and listen to the words she is speaking.

“Hello, you have reached the Division of Youth and Family Services.”