Bassim
VIP Member
- Joined
- Mar 1, 2008
- Member Type
- Student or Learner
- Native Language
- Bosnian
- Home Country
- Bosnia Herzegovina
- Current Location
- Sweden
Please, could you proofread my text:
She started wearing tight-fitting clothes, short skirts, stilettos, and she bleached her hair platinum blond. Some of similarly dressed women would come to visit her and Marcus, sitting in his room could hear them drinking beer and wine and talking about men and their sexual organs.
At weekends she would sit at the mirror, arrange her hair and makeup and go out, leaving the scent of sweet perfume lingering in the flat. She would return late in the night, sometimes at dawn, and Marcus would always stay awake, lying in his bed and thinking of her, yearning for her and wishing he could be with her.
He would feel tired and sleepy, but sleep would not overcome him, not until the moment when he heard the taxi came to a halt, his mother’s stilettos clicking on the asphalt and her hands opening the door of the flat. After that he would drop off and in the morning he would see her again. Her hair was often dishevelled, dark rings around her eyes and her voice hoarse. The pungent smell emanated from her: a mixture of her perfume, alcohol, cigarettes and human sweat. She kissed him on the forehead, ruffled his hair, smiled and asked him if he had slept well.
Some weeks later, men began visiting her. Sometimes they brought gifts: bouquets of flowers, perfumes and bottles of wine. Marcus did not like them and went to his room, switched on the TV, trying to concentrate on the films he was watching on the video. However, the sound of the voices from the rest of the flat was reminding him that his mother was neglecting him because of all those men whose guffaws and loud voices reverberated inside his head long after they had left. Sometimes he would run outside and walk the streets, angry and sad at the same time. He watched other children with envy, especially those who strolled together with their parents. They had everything what they needed, while his emptiness would never be filled again.
When after a few hours he would return home, his mother was alone, dishwashing, cleaning and letting the cigarette smoke out. He would walk straight into his room without greeting her. That was his way of protesting against her behaviour, which she unfortunately did not intend to change.
She started wearing tight-fitting clothes, short skirts, stilettos, and she bleached her hair platinum blond. Some of similarly dressed women would come to visit her and Marcus, sitting in his room could hear them drinking beer and wine and talking about men and their sexual organs.
At weekends she would sit at the mirror, arrange her hair and makeup and go out, leaving the scent of sweet perfume lingering in the flat. She would return late in the night, sometimes at dawn, and Marcus would always stay awake, lying in his bed and thinking of her, yearning for her and wishing he could be with her.
He would feel tired and sleepy, but sleep would not overcome him, not until the moment when he heard the taxi came to a halt, his mother’s stilettos clicking on the asphalt and her hands opening the door of the flat. After that he would drop off and in the morning he would see her again. Her hair was often dishevelled, dark rings around her eyes and her voice hoarse. The pungent smell emanated from her: a mixture of her perfume, alcohol, cigarettes and human sweat. She kissed him on the forehead, ruffled his hair, smiled and asked him if he had slept well.
Some weeks later, men began visiting her. Sometimes they brought gifts: bouquets of flowers, perfumes and bottles of wine. Marcus did not like them and went to his room, switched on the TV, trying to concentrate on the films he was watching on the video. However, the sound of the voices from the rest of the flat was reminding him that his mother was neglecting him because of all those men whose guffaws and loud voices reverberated inside his head long after they had left. Sometimes he would run outside and walk the streets, angry and sad at the same time. He watched other children with envy, especially those who strolled together with their parents. They had everything what they needed, while his emptiness would never be filled again.
When after a few hours he would return home, his mother was alone, dishwashing, cleaning and letting the cigarette smoke out. He would walk straight into his room without greeting her. That was his way of protesting against her behaviour, which she unfortunately did not intend to change.
