Broken writers are blooming flowers.

By Palesa Urgorji

In a very humbled suburb of Folks, where in many citizens lied great talent and dreams. I woke up that
Saturday morning with excitement bubbling inside me. Today was the day I would meet the renowned
writing coach who promised to help me become the writer I had always dreamed of being. My heart
pounded with anticipation as I dressed in my favourite outfit and grabbed my well-worn notebook.

Arriving at the coach’s office, I was greeted by a man who seemed kind and knowledgeable. His warm
smile put me at ease, and I couldn’t help but feel a surge of hope.

I have written a thousand stories and crushed many of them because, “they are not perfect” or just “not
creative enough. ” If this dream could become a reality, I would be making many people’s dreams in my
neighbourhood come true.

We began our session, discussing my aspirations and the stories I longed to share with the world. The
coach listened attentively, offering words of encouragement and guidance. I felt as though I had finally
found someone who understood my passion and believed in my potential.

As the hours passed, the coach suggested we take a break. He poured us each a glass of water, and I
eagerly drank mine without a second thought. That was the last moment of clarity I would remember.

The room started to spin, and the once-familiar surroundings became distorted. Panic surged through
my veins as I tried to comprehend what was happening. But my body betrayed me, losing control under
the influence of an unknown substance.

Time blurred as the coach’s true intentions were revealed. His smile turned sinister, and his eyes glinted
with a malevolence I had never witnessed before. “ Are you alright?,” he asked in hushed tones, stripping
away my confidence like a thief in the night.
After what felt like hours of breathing, crying, gasping and sweating, he moved away from me and fixed
himself. I just lied on the couch powerless and watch him drink his glass of whiskey down. He took a
scissor and tore apart my dreams, mocking my aspirations with cruel words.

I desperately fought against the fog that clouded my mind, but it was useless. The drug had stolen not
only my physical control but also my ability to articulate my thoughts and emotions. Every word I had
once cherished now seemed distant and unattainable.

Days turned into weeks, and the once-vibrant girl that I was slowly faded away. The coach’s manipulation
had taken its toll, leaving behind a shell of the aspiring writer I had once been. I could no longer find
solace in the pages of my notebook or the power of my words.

I have gotten to learn that my coach had different plans for me, rather than to make a young dream
grow. My parents will go to the casket and beyond without knowing what happened to me. My soul will
never allow me to vent.

The pain of losing myself was unbearable. The dreams that had once fuelled my spirit now haunted my
every waking moment. It was a turmoil. The coach had not only stolen my confidence but also my sense
of self. I was left adrift, struggling to find purpose in a world that suddenly seemed cold and unforgiving.

But deep within me, a flicker of hope remained. Though my voice had been silenced, the fire of
determination still burned within my soul. I vowed to reclaim what had been taken from me, to rise
above the darkness that had consumed my spirit.

This is my story, a tale of shattered dreams and stolen potential. But it is also a testament to the
resilience of the human spirit and the power of hope. I may have lost myself as a girl, but I will never lose
the strength to rebuild and rediscover the writer within me.

I am not just a writer but I’m a fighter and a flower. If some days make me feel more victim than survivor,
I will fight. If the light comes and shines upon the windows of my room, I will not ignore. I will do what
flowers do—bloom!