Student’s Name: Haniya nadeem Date:

__20/8/2020_________
Writing Task:

Use the narrative planner from Creative Writing WS 1D

ii to plan your writing and produce a short story about the time when you or
someone you know was bullied in school and make sure to include how the
problem was taken care of.

Writing Prompts:

Create at least one three-dimensional character with personality traits,

flaws, and motivations (If this story is about you, you will be this character)

.create detailed settings for the story that serve a thematic purposecreate
a plot that has conflict, rising action, a climax, and a satisfying falling
action/conclusion

Write, revise, and compose a final draft of your story containing all the
elements a good story needs (compelling characters, detailed setting, plot,
and theme)

Beep, beep, beep.

Shafilea groaned at the sound of her rambunctious alarm clock while her
plain white curtains were simultaneously opened by the silhouette of a
plump figure. An aggravatingly blazing light hit her face. “Wake up Lea,
school time!” her mother’s voice falsely cheery voice seemed to come from
a far distance. She sullenly raised herself, not in any hurry whatsoever to
prepare for school. It was one of those days where she was proud to see
herself alive, no, not happy but proud. She was beyond proud; she had
survived yet another day of torment. Opening her eyes, she was greeted by
a face, prematurely lined, showing years of hardships and hassle, her
wrinkles creased as she smiled down at her. There she was, her dear old
mother, she always smiled, it never wavered. Perhaps to reduce the guilt
she carried over her shoulders; alas, she had once abandoned her own
child due to mere financial instability. Still yawning, Shafilea brazenly made
her way towards the restroom, not uttering a word. Closing the discordant
wooden door, she rigidly went towards the broken glass mirror. There she
was, Shafilea. Close-set mousy brown eyes, a roman shaped nose, tight,
slightly withered lips. Demeaning herself had become a morning ritual; she
was much too imperfect. Sighing to herself, she started to prepare for yet
another day of heinous affliction.

She staggered tiredly into the dingy kitchen room. Her mother was
enthusiastically preparing her breakfast on the kitchen counter. Shafilea
sensed a surge of precipitous guilt. “You don’t have to do that” she
mumbled quietly, her mother turned towards, her brows creased in
confusion. Before her mother could utter a word, Shafilea said “I don’t feel
like eating; please pack that as lunch for me”. Her mother’s scratchy voice
responded with an uncertain, lingering smile “Alright dear, wait outside.
Honestly, these bloody buses will be the death of me” she added
exasperatedly, “Chop chop! Wait outside”.

After being given her lunch, Shafilea wearily waited for her school bus,
praying silently for a jubilant day for once. The bus’ tires stopped in front of
her feet, still mumbling incoherent pleas, she hopped on to the year-old
bus.

It was the end of another school day; she had miraculously survived yet
another day. People had stared at her, taunted her, spat at her, all for a
mistake her mother made years ago. But it was endurable; perhaps this
was the beginning of her peace? She was proven incorrect a nanosecond
later as a strong, hard hand pushed her. “How does it feel to be unwanted
by your mother eh? I heard she only took custody of you because of legal
trouble. I don’t blame her though, I mean, look at you” Esra wrinkled her
nose in a mock disgust, her large group of friends laughed in cue. Esra: the
main person who taunted her, insulted her, verbally abused her, the one
who encouraged others to mistreat her. Shafilea loathed her; she loathed
Esra much more than she loathed herself. That itself was self-explanatory.
A sudden wave of hatred tugged her gut with such intensity it was
agitating, and then, before she could stop herself, contemplate the
consequences; she charged straight towards Esra, her fist colliding with her
petite nose. She stood still in shock as Ezra’s body fell down on the
deserted pavement. Her heart was pounding against her chest, no one
spoke, no one moved; all gaped, looking back and forth between Shafilea
and Esra. Maybe they’ll get too intimidated to hit me back, Shafilea thought
desperately. Her thoughts were proven when a kick was aimed towards her
stomach, and another, and another. It escalated painfully, Shafilea was in
agony, but no voice answered her shrieks, no individual aided her, her
pleas of frantic apologies, the torment was too much to handle. They
stopped after what felt like an eternity, Esra scoffed at Shafilea's
whimpering, lifeless body. And so they ultimately left her moaning body on
the isolated pavement.

It was about noon when she reached her meager house. She limped inside
the entrance door, her eyes meeting the figure of her distressed mother.
She was chewing on her nails while rocking back and forth, her eyes held a
glint of mania. “Maman” Shafilea croaked, her mother’s head whipped
towards and she let out a guttural scream. “My baby! Oh you’re alive-“Her
blissful cheers were stopped abruptly at the sight of Shafilea’s bloody,
bruised figure. Her mother opened her mouth to form a sentence yet none
came. When her voice rebounded, she was interrupted by Shafilea’s
hollow, colourless voice, devoid of all emotion “If I don’t open my eyes
tomorrow” an uncanny silence followed as Shafilea tried to formulate her
thoughts into words “Remember that I love you” her voice broke at the end.
Her mother’s figure stayed rigid, with round eyed mournful shock. She
pushed away her mother away, blinking back tears; she rushed towards
her room, locking her door shut.

“Shafilea!” her mother’s maniacal sobs filled the house. “Shafilea, your
mother loves you! No please no!” she screamed demonically. She pounded
on her door, she shrieked, she threw metal silverware but Shafilea didn’t
heed, she curled into ball on her cold, wooden floor with silent pools of
tears leaked out of her eyes. “KILL ME” her mother’s voice so shrill only
bats could’ve heard it if any higher. Shafilea last spoke “I’m fine mama” her
loud voice carried outside her room “I promise I’m fine. I just got a little
angry. Promise. I just need time to calm down. I love you, don’t worry.” On
the other side of her door her mother’s sobs eased, a smile of ecstasy
spread across her lined face. Her baby was alive, she was fine. “Should I
make you food? How about delicious hot steaks?” her asked brightly.
Inside of Shafilea’s room, her defeated, and pitiful self, answered “I would
love that” her lower lip trembled at the lie. Her mother hummed in
response. Her heavy footsteps indicated to Shafilea that she was making
her way towards the kitchen. But Shafilea had made her atrocious
decision. She wanted to end it all.

A scarf was firmly tied around Shafilea’s bedroom fan with a stool directly
beneath it, found by Shafilea inside her room, both placed and tied by her a
few minutes before. Her vacant footsteps made their way towards the stool.
She stood on it, placidly tying her scarf around her thin neck. Her tranquility
was eerie, unsettling; she expected herself to cry, mourn for her mother.
She expected hesitancy. Her lower lip trembled. What would her death be
remembered about? The girl who killed herself? The girl who wasn’t good
enough? The girl who was murdered by society? Or simply an unnamed
soul? Her mother’s content hums filled the air, completely oblivious to the
sin her daughter was committing. Torrents of heavy rain hit the ground, as
if it knew yet another troubled soul was at loss. Finally, a wave of emotion
hit her. A tear trickled down her cheek. She didn’t want to end her life, she
wanted to end her suffering. “I’m sorry” she whispered, her voice cracking
pathetically and then closing her eyes, she jumped.

Her body twitched for release, her heart beat for life. But Shafilea didn’t
move and a few minutes later, she was simply a tale. Her expression so lull
she could’ve been mistaken for sleeping, but the rope tied around her neck
was testimony. The last gift from the living to dead. Her life was snuffed
faster than a candle. Torrents of rain hit vigorously on the ground, now
combined with hasty winds. The only sounds found in Shafilea’s house was
the sizzling of grease, and the content humming of her plump mother. Oh
the content humming,still oblivious to Shafilea’s fate, still in the in
misconception that her beloved daughter was happy and alive when she is
now a rotting corpse……