She pulled the crimson rose from the bush. Uncaring if the thorns would swipe her finger. They did pierce her delicate skin and a bold liquid, darker than the rose itself sprang forth from her index finger. Still she did not care. She walked to the other side of the oak tree and sat down. The hard bark of the tree pushed into her back as she remained immobile. The girl stared out into the beautiful meadow filled with wildflowers and soft green grass. Her purple sundress had fanned out before her as she stretched out her pained legs. The bruises were slightly healed on her shin but the marks on her arms were fresh. Father had become angry again. The imprints from his leather belt had left permanent wounds upon her skin and soul. She let her hurt toes brush the slightly damp, thick grass, and a tickling sensation arose. She felt at peace in this quaint meadow. Safe from everything else. The girl would often visit the meadow to calm herself. The place had become her savior, a mantra. She closed her eyes and slowly drifted to sleep. Until she was awoken by the deep voice of her yelling father. She awoke in a her own bed. “It was only a dream” she thought to her self. But the shouting still continued. The meadow was only in her head.

comment comment comment.

would it be chosen for one of the pieces in my school's english magazine?
is it lacking?
constructive criticism is accepted.