I feel him watching me. Wanting something from me, I know, I cannot give. Alone, in this abandoned room, the smell of death lies heavily on the air. I feel him, standing behind me, towering me with his rippling, inky figure. Rusting chains are draped across his decaying body, grinding against each other. I feel his merciless blood-rimmed eyes scorch my skin as his breath trails down my neck. His obsessive stare traces my body, memorising, the scars he has already made. A figure frozen in the rictus of death, his hefty body is hidden by the obscurity of this weathered apartment. Streaks of human shadows paint the walls, circling me as if I was the cause of their terror. Street lights spill through the window, flickering against the shredded …show more content…
You let him die.” Revulsion in myself drips down my face as I start to cry. My vision blurs, and I am absorbed into the haunting moment. I can see him walking away from the dead body while carrying the boy’s weeping soul. They leave the desolated streets, surrounded by the collapsing ghetto wall, together. Timid tears trace the boy's face and fall onto the lifeless cracked pavers below his feet. The boy’s vacant face lays against his arms as if he was simply asleep. The memory begins to fade from my glassy eyes and relief slowly wraps around my body. Air flows into my lungs, forcing me to take a small …show more content…
The coarse wood of the broken frame hangs to the side. The black paint peeling down the raw wood. I run my hands through my hair and lean my forehead against the glass. Through the window I see countless decomposing bodies draped across the dead hills. Their moans of heartache wailing in the wind as the colours of their clothes bleed into the horizon. I hear the chains rattling behind me. His voice shakes the room, “Why didn’t you save the boy, Wladek? You let him die.” A harsh yell of distress escapes my dry lips, "I do not need you! Leave me alone!" I raise my blanched hand and hurl it against his phantom reflection in the murky glass. Rugged and sharp, the glass showers over my body, slashing my bruised skin as it falls to the ground. Tainted blood stains the clothing draping from my body. In the shards I see my shattered reflection, a reflection now mutilated. There is no way to put myself together without the cracks visible. I look back to the broken window. The mourning souls from the hills flare into the room and devour me. Someone, please, help me. He moves to stand behind me, shifting the humid air around us. His words incinerate me again, “Why didn’t you save the boy Wladek? You let him die.” The air in my lungs turns to water. Violently coughing, my body convulses from the pain. The vicious motion gaining control of my body, forcing the world to blur. Colour drains
The author illustrates the “dim, rundown apartment complex,” she walks in, hand and hand with her girlfriend. Using the terms “dim,” and “rundown” portrays the apartment complex as an unsafe, unclean environment; such an environment augments the violence the author anticipates. Continuing to develop a perilous backdrop for the narrative, the author describes the night sky “as the perfect glow that surrounded [them] moments before faded into dark blues and blacks, silently watching.” Descriptions of the dark, watching sky expand upon the eerie setting of the apartment complex by using personification to give the sky a looming, ominous quality. Such a foreboding sky, as well as the dingy apartment complex portrayed by the author, amplify the narrator’s fear of violence due to her sexuality and drive her terror throughout the climax of the
Hearing nothing except for the echoes of 'Laaa...Laaa…Laaa...Laaa...' I cautiously creep along the gory footpath to see the dead bodies lying on the grainy dirt. A chill ascends from my knees; I feel it mounting onto my waist and reaching for my heart. The stench of dead carcasses trails across the air as I approach the river. The water has turned from an aqua blue to a pale red. What has happened?
Yeah (stop, stop, stop, stop) You’ll only get your wings wet Oh, oh, (oh, oh….) ooooh (stop, stop, stop, stop) As the day falls into darkness, you come up to me quietly
... at the man, the unbidden memory of my parents’ lifeless body in the open casket washes over my mind. My head begins to throb. I fight back tears, screaming in agony.
A screeching halt and, barely an instant later, the blinding fury of explosion. Flailing in turbulent heat I grasp for the window and slap at it with a blood slimed finger, it doesn’t open. I’m trapped in this deathly oven of flying shrapnel and screams. I’m alone. A hand punches through the glass and cool air pours onto my face as
It is early morning and he walks alone. The iron gates, crusted with rust, clang in his wake. Fog washes over the tombstones in waves. His feet crunch upon the ground. The fog obscures his vision, but he could walk here blindfolded. This journey to the cemetery has become a routine, anticipated but not enjoyed. The call of a loon sails through the milky air; the sound ripples along his spine. He walks onward, head forced down, eyes riveted to the ground.
The uncontrollable, insufferable stench pervaded the gloomy passage, I walked on in anxiety. My limbs quivered hysterically not because of cold, but of the trembling shadows around the asphalt pavement. Petrified and juddering, I uttered prayers in murmurs, imploring God or angels to protect me in this vile, desolate place. I felt instinctively that I had embarked on danger. To enter the graveyard I must skirt around a stack of brown frosted leaves, the countless flashing fragments shine in the vivid bitter light.
“Daemon, it is you that is confused. It is me that you must fear for it is I who brings the storm. You will not withstand my storm of violence. Leave me now!” Slowly the wind abated and soft laughter nagged at his ears. He batted at the air as though trying to swipe a nagging winged
In the distance, I hear what sounds like a young girl crying. I decide to go exploring. In the woods outside a small town, I stumble across what appears to be an old abandoned brick house from the 1800s, standing on a steep hill overlooking a graveyard in a small clearing. The cone shaped roof and dark shingled turret looks like a witch’s hat. The windows are boarded up with faded wood pieces crossed in an ‘x.’ Shattered glass from windowpanes lies on the ground.
Windows covered with grime and dirt, the calm moonlight struggled to penetrate the darkness in thin thread rays. The sofa and chairs overturned revealing deep grooves on the ground where they used to sit. Wallpaper lay curled on the floor. Picture frames hanged off-centered. A misplaced grand bookcase stood the corner of the room, undisturbed for a long time.
The eight of us trudged into the building, and I saw a lot of familiar faces: the Seltzer's, my neighbors, Mrs. Tully, my mom’s friend, and family members from my mom’s side. Though the thing that stood out the most was the vast, brown coffin in the the front of the room. Some of us shuffled up to the coffin to see my grandmother. It was eerie seeing my grandmother lifeless, I thought. Not in her house wheeling around in a chair while cooking in the kitchen, not sitting outside her house with me talking about the rabbit that always sat on her yard in the evening.
There is something unique about the way children are capable of love. It’s never measured or compared; it has no obligations or expectations and isn’t tainted by materialism or the delusions of grandeur that we attach to adult relationships. That sort of raw admiration comes from an innocent place where we haven’t yet learned to erect emotional barriers. It is a blissful ignorance, unaware of the pain that disappointment or rejection can bring. It’s sad that the hard knocks of life beat it out of us.
Her husband had been killed due to a railroad disaster. Her reaction was the same as anyone else’s: immediate pain. She went upstairs to remain alone in her room, where she cried passionately about the death. She walked over towards the open window and observed the world as if it were alive and fresh, where she thought and thought. She started to wonder if her husband’s death was such a
Following Me! Dark and foggy. This feels endless. I've been driving on this road for hours. I arrive at a fork in the road.
...ed eyes, vision growing fainter, body becoming paralyzed, and the hum of the hospital machines muting to a dull throb. And slowly I rise, rise into the escape of pure bliss.