Creative Writing: Hulga's Home

As Manley Pointer slammed the barn door shut behind him, the ladder to the loft collapsed to the floor. Hulga did all she could—scream. Minutes passed. Hours dragged on as Hulga continued crying for help. Deeming her efforts futile, Hulga wept. As the sun set beyond the horizon, Hulga’s eyes dried up. With no glasses and no rays of sun seeping in through the cracks in the roof, Hulga felt around blindly, gathering a small bundle of hay upon which to lay her head.
“Mama and Mrs. Freeman will surely notice I’m gone. Well, I bet I’ll be home by lunchtime tomorrow,” she whispered to herself, truly believing the words spilling out of her mouth. Closing her eyes, she tried to drift into sleep, but her doubtful thoughts occupied her attention.
“What if they think I ran away? What if

they don’t think to look in the barn? What if they think I’m dead? What if I die in here?”
As the sun rose at six in the morning, Hulga rubbed the sleep from her eyes, having been able to rest for no more than three hours. A loud grumbling sound interrupted the peaceful chirping of the morning birds.
“If I don’t get something to eat soon, I might die,” she muttered, fumbling for something to satisfy her growling stomach. She emitted an excited yelp when her hands grazed over the small wild berries that she remembered consuming as a child.
Munching on a handful of assorted berries, Hulga reminisced about her childhood—playing tag and climbing trees and picking wild berries. All that had changed when she was ten. With the loss of her leg, Hulga lost her joy, her sense of adventure, her hope. If she had not lost her leg, she never would have left the faith.
After breakfast she continued groping around the loft, taking anything she could use. A hammer, a bucket, some rope, and a small pile of wood comprised her survival supplies. Hearing the pitter-patter of rainfall against the wooden roof, Hulga gripped the lightly rusted hammer and beat against the rotting wood of the roof, making a small hole in the corner. Placing the bucket underneath the hole, Hulga smirked, proud of herself for thinking of a method to obtain drinking water. When the rain stopped half an hour later, Hulga was heartbroken, realizing that she had barely collected half a cup of water. Downing the cool water in two large gulps, Hulga rested next to the bucket, gazing up at the clouds through the small hole in the roof. Again, she was taken back to those few good years of childhood before her life became a catastrophic collaboration of pain, heartbreak, and sadness.
“Look, that one looks like a bunny,” a seven-year-old Joy had exclaimed, smiling as she pointed to a picturesque cloud.
“And that one looks like a car,” her mother joyfully added, placing a flower crown upon Joy’s beautiful brown hair. “And this one is a princess,” she pointed a finger at Joy, whose dimples quickly appeared as her cheeks glowed bright, as pure and innocent as a blooming rose.
Though Hulga would never admit it, that day in the fields with her mother was one of the happiest days of her life. Hours flew by as Hulga reminisced to her young life—the life before these “Hulga” shenanigans overran her personality, the life when the name “Joy” perfectly complimented her persona. In those few moments, Hulga felt something. She hadn’t felt things like this in an awfully long time. Though she never would have guessed that she would feel happy in an abandoned barn of all places, Hulga felt true bliss.
The only thing capable of terminating such a wonderful reminiscence was the sound of her rumbling stomach. Looking down at her cheap old wristwatch, which had been a gift from her grandmother, she realized that it was already 3:00 PM, far past her usual lunchtime. Gobbling up the rest of the wild berries, Hulga felt herself becoming restless. Though she never felt the desire to be active, not being able to walk caused her to want nothing more than to run. After her late lunch came to an end, Hulga crawled to the other side of the claustrophobic loft and began tapping rhythmically against the floorboards. Playing the beats to her favorite songs, she began to hum along to the poorly-imitated Joan Weber song that she had heard on the radio just days ago. As the sun set once more, marking twenty-four hours without rescue, Hulga realized that she would never be found.
“Mama, I know you can’t hear me. And I know you probably think I ran off with that no-good scumbag of a bastard, Manley Pointer. And maybe you even hate me; heck, I might even hate me. But I want you to know that I love you. And that even when I yelled and fought with you, I always still loved you.”
The sun rose the next day, but Hulga felt too weak to even move from her makeshift bed.

“This is the end,” she stated. She didn’t cry or stutter or tremor or even flinch. She was neither happy nor sad about it. She just accepted it. For years she had thought of her death moment, but as it neared, she realized it would be nowhere near as glorious or as wonderful as she had imagined.
Another day passed as the light slowly faded from Hulga’s eyes. Dehydrated, starving, and delirious, Hulga began to see her dead family members approaching her.
First, her grandmother’s hand reached out towards her weak body. Then her grandfather waltzed to her side. Even Aunt Betty and Cousin Jax appeared to her. “Come with us, Hulga,” her family proposed warmly. “You can have a brand new leg. Just come with us. You’ll like it here.”
“Ain’t no way I’m going to Heaven. Ain’t no way I was good enough for that,” she whispered, gasping for air.
“The Lord knows you were dealt a bad hand in life, Hulga. Just come with us, Hulga. Please,” her grandmother’s hand was now only inches from her own.
Weakly grabbing the outstretched hand, the girl managed to utter her last words, “Call me

Joy.”