The stairs creek as I forcefully make my legs go up the stairs to the door of the smith’s old farm house. The house is worn out and grey and it hides between the over grown trees and weeds that are prove of the many years that have passed. “Slow down,” whispers Hayes from behind me as he tries to bravely go in the house before me. Deep down I know he’s more scared than I’ll ever be as I see his fingers twitching as he holds the door knob. This feeling of sadness, pain and hurt hits me like an unexpected train and I can’t get rid of the anxiety bubbling within me. I’m about to step inside when broken dishes and a bible by the window grab my attention. “Let’s just get this over with,” I sigh as I weakly go inside and I’m greeted with dust and …show more content…
You know what they say, that the father still haunts this place after killing his whole family.” I try not to snap at Hayes as I think about the fact that Jeffery Smith couldn’t hold on to his sanity. “I wonder what happened with Rose, the baby, and why he didn’t let her live,” ask Hayes. “Sometimes tragedies just happen,” I whisper more to myself than to him. I walk to the window and as I glance at the broken toys outside everything flashes back. I remember how my father committed suicide thanks to the stress of a life poorly lived. I recall my mother Sarah running as the plates she was holding crash to the ground the second she heard the shotgun. I could still hear the piercing scream coming from my mother as she comes back out, tears filling her eyes as a shocked expression paints her face. My blood runs cold as she grabs me and without a glance back she makes us leave our home. Our identity disappearing with every step we took. That day I stopped being a Smith. Nobody can ever know I’m that baby that people talk about when sharing insipid scary stories. Tears fill my eyes as I say to Hayes, “There’s nothing here for me, let’s go.” A confused expression takes over his face for a second before following me out the
The window was cold to the touch. The glass shimmered as the specks of sunlight danced, and Blake stood, peering out. As God put his head to the window, at once, he felt light shining through his soul. Six years old. Age ceased to define him and time ceased to exist. Silence seeped into every crevice of the room, and slowly, as the awe of the vision engulfed him, he felt the gates slowly open. His thoughts grew fluid, unrestrained, and almost chaotic. An untouched imagination had been liberated, and soon, the world around him transformed into one of magnificence and wonder. His childish naivety cloaked the flaws and turbulence of London, and the imagination became, to Blake, the body of God. The darkness lingering in the corners of London slowly became light. Years passed by, slowly fading into wisps of the past, and the blanket of innocence deteriorated as reality blurred the clarity of childhood.
The smell of morning dew calms me on my dreaded journey to the factory. As I stumble along the rocky path, wishing, just wishing I could go and enjoy the little time I have left as a child. I approach the old structure and the sounds of banging and yells surround my bony structure, but I continue. I hesitantly walked towards the building, making me stop before entering thinking “Do I really need to go in?”. A tall dark figure with an expression on his face that can only describe anger yells at me to get inside or I won't get my dinner and shoves me inside.
As he falls into a silent shell, filled with visions of killing his mom. He struggles desperately with the haunting truth. Reaching deep into his self he musters enough courage to go on.
But as a shadow flicks between buildings or a faraway window is shattered, a little voice speaks up telling you to run. It’s the awareness that, as a human being, you are no longer the apex predator- you are the prey. Now that little voice is screaming at me that something isn’t right. I should listen to it- I should really listen to it but the only thing running through my mind is that nothing will ever be right about the world now, and maybe nothing ever was. After weeks of contemplating the possibility of me being the singular survivor of an apocalypse that came too soon, the presence of this a blue-eyed boy assures me that I am not alone. The boy’s hand is clasped at the wound as I watch blood seep through his fingers and drip off his elbow onto the tiled floor. I am suddenly in awe of the events that have lead me up to this point in time; the events that have placed me here, standing on the broken glass of an abandoned convenience store’s window, pointing a gun towards a
“Are you sure I can’t just transfer schools?”. A question I had asked a billion times over. “100%. I promise you, you will be okay”. My mom rubbed my back as my head dropped onto the cold kitchen counter. I didn’t want to hear that I would be okay. I wanted them to let me have my way. “You’re in your last year what difference would it make”. My brother joined the conversation as if someone had asked. I rolled my eyes, letting him know his opinion was being recognized and very neatly filed in the trash bin in my brain. I made my way to my bedroom and collapsed onto the bed, burying my face into the pillow. My parents were right, I could handle it. I just didn’t want to.
On a cold windy night, the sound of bombs dropping echoed not too far away. Ahmad was laying down thinking about his life. He contemplated his existence by asking himself questions. Is his life worth it? Is staying in the country worth risking his life?
He took a look around the room, there was blood splattered all over the walls and floors, shackles left on the floor, the window nailed shut meagerly letting in light, and the ceiling looked as if it was about to collapse in a seconds notice. To his right, he saw a chair entirely embedded with spikes. “I’m sorry for the poor soul that has to sit on that death chair” stated Jonas muttering to himself. There was a knock on the door, letting Jonas know someone was coming in. In came Jonas’s father, the door protesting as he opened it
Thick scars cover me as a reminder from him that I should stop trying. My most recent effort was months ago and I did not even make it out the taut open window before he dragged me back to hell. The agony immediately following caused my defiance to dissolve. But this time feels different. This time I feel hope buried in the most secluded parts of myself blooming. Optimism surfaces as I make the hasty decision and swing my aching legs over the side of the bed and head towards the door. I have no possessions to gather besides the torn black dress lying on the floor. I feel electricity pulsing through my skin as I warily twist the metal doorknob. He always locks the door from the outside, keeping me from ever escaping him. As the door swings open, the soft wind wraps me in a blanket of warmth. Stepping onto the damp cement patio, I sense the cold stone on every part of my calloused feet. My extremities tingle at the new senses. Rediscovering nature and the opportunities that it carries causes my heart to catch fire. I begin to walk, not caring that the gravel is painful against my raw feet. My mind races as I try remember how to breathe. As I exhale, an uncontrollable smile plasters itself to my face. I will the futile girl in the mirror to evaporate from my body, remaining trapped in the shards of glass still on the bathroom floor. The warm sun burns across my back as the pace of my steps increase. The birds
The doors before me felt ominous. I didn't want to touch them; I knew nothing good would come of it. It felt like I swallowed a peach pit, and it had settled in the bottom of my stomach, but still I reached my hands forward and pushed open the door. The inside of the parlor was rather nice, it gave off a surprisingly comforting feeling, greatly contrasting the face of everyone before me. There were seats placed throughout the main room, and flowers as far as I could see; it was nice.
It was a frosty night. The ground was soft, but dry. The sun had almost set, and thick grey clouds moved slowly and silently through the sky. The air smelt damp, the only sound anyone could have heard was their own breathing, and the occasional chirping of a bird above.
As the sun began to set on the old, abandoned house strange noises filled the air sounding a lot like a scream. Four people emerged from the shadow at the doorway of the remains of the home covered in splatters of a richly coloured liquid looking like liquidized rubies. The four figures were walking together in a horizontal line in height order. On the right hand side there was a tall sandy brown haired male with glowing red eyes, blood splattered across his reasonably pale face and black plastic rimmed glasses which had the light reflecting off them in a way that would hide his eyes; next to him was another male with fluffy looking silver hair, he too had blood splattered across his pale features and his eyes were a bright amber and glowing,
It was a rainy Saturday in Town Name all that could be heard was the rain hitting the concrete. All of the students were at Bar Name, all except Katy, she was sitting on the sidewalk outside of her apartment crying in the rain. After all how could she enjoy her night when Eric was not with her? It would not be possible for Katy to have any fun without the man she loved by her side, but he didn’t care. He has Carly now, Katy no longer meant to him what he meant to her and she was not able to control it. How could he have moved on so quickly? He must have never loved me, he must have been using me for sex, he must not have thought about our future like he said he did, if he truly wanted a future with me he would be here, he would not have left,
Watching my step carefully, I climbed up the long flight of stairs to the first floor. I reached my hand out to grab the handrail, only to pull it away quickly as I received a sharp prick from the rough uncared-for wood. When I finally reach the first deck of the house, I have to stop to inflate my lungs with the barely oxygenated air of 10,000 feet. I walk across the twisted and contorted deck to the dirty-white door lined by turquoise trim. The trim color seems odd now; I don't remember it from my last visit. I stick the key into the brass handle knob and swing the door open; a rush of musty air makes my nostrils flare and twitch out of control. Looking across the neat unlived in room, memories of times when people actually lived in this house fill my mind.
On the day my father died, I remember walking home from school with my cousin on a November fall day, feeling the falling leaves dropping off the trees, hitting my cold bare face. Walking into the house, I could feel the tension and knew that something had happened by the look on my grandmother’s face. As I started to head to the refrigerator, my mother told me to come, and she said that we were going to take a trip to the hospital.