|
This was a short story that a friend and I had written for my other friend's school project. She changed her mind at the last possible second and decided to not use it... Even though that mad me a tinge-bit mad, I still love her...
Any way, I hope you enjoy it. I doubt I'll update it, because I've dedicated my life to another story I'm currently working on (it has chapters!!). I'll post that one here as well in maybe a week and a few days...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
..........“If not for that child… if not for that curse of a “blessing”..!” I heard her say when I finally came home.
My mother was especially mad at me this morning. Maybe, I thought, because it was my birthday; the same day my father had walked out of the door. Mom was sharpening a kitchen knife. It was long, thick and sharp, almost like a butcher knife. I thought she was preparing dinner. I guess I wasn’t paying attention, because there wasn’t any meat on the table…
As I closed the door, her head snapped in my direction, her eyes were cold as ice and pierced right through me, sending a chill down my spine.
“You…” she hissed. “It’s all your fault..!”
I jumped, scared and confused. What did I do? What’s my fault? My heart seemed to slow to a stop as I watched her run toward me with the knife held over her head. She screamed and swiped it down toward my shoulder. I screamed out of fear and dodged the knife. Luckily, it only cut a bit of my sleeve. I quickly dropped my book bag so that I could run away faster from the psycho that was my mother. I scrambled to the other side of the room with her in hot pursuit, swinging the knife wildly and screaming up sanities.
“Don’t you run from me, you bastard child!!”
I could hear the rage and desperation in her shrills. I closed my eyes, trying to stop the tears from falling. I soon bumped into something hard and opened my eyes enough to see that I had hit a dead end. I quickly turned in time to see my mother raise her knife for another attack. I shriek in utter terror and slid over to the corner. She missed…but just barely.
“Mom, stop!!” I managed to cry out. But she wasn’t listening. She raised her knife again and I raised my arms in defense, covering my face. She slashed down at my arms repeatedly, cutting deep gashes into my arm, determined to either tire me or just cut them off. I managed to peek through my bloody arms and I kicked her in the shin. My mother growled in pain and the knife few out of her hand, bounced off the floor, and landed next to me. My mother looked down at me, her face growing redder than before.
“Why, you little… I’m gonna make sure you can’t even WALK on those legs again..!”
I quickly grabbed the knife and my mother’s shadow consumed me within seconds. I screamed and thrusted the knife upward and then… silence. The next thing I knew, I felt something warm running over my hands, arms and head. I looked up and there she was…my mother... growing paler and colder by the second. She struggled to gaze down at me and managed to say, with her parting breath:
“I hope…you go…to hell…”
And she suddenly became heavy. My arms grew weak and collapsed, my mother falling on top of me. I screamed and pushed her off of me, thinking, at the time, she would get up and knock the day lights out of me, like she would usually do. But not this time… She continued to lay there, a dark red puddle started to grow underneath her.
I didn’t understand death at that age even though my mother used to shout about it almost everyday: “You better pray to your devil that I won’t knock you to death..!”
But it all seemed to click then; my mother is dead… and I was the one that killed her. For that moment…I felt…relieved. For only a second, I knew that my mother would never hit me again. However, the second after that…I missed her. Not the crazy woman that would drink and beat me, but the mother that loved me; the mother that named me Emily. I fell into a fetal position and I began to sob.
Moments later, I heard sirens and people yelling in alarm and worry. Doors slammed and I heard footsteps rushing toward my front door. The door was kicked down (which I thought was a bit extreme, because it was already unlocked…) and I felt people surrounding me. More worry and panic escaped their lips. My gaze remained fixed behind my eyelids as I cried. A man knelt down beside me and saw my arms.
“Hey, hey… it’s okay… we’re the good guys…” he looked further into the house and saw my dead corpse of a mother. He grimaced, returning his attention to me as the paramedics rushed toward her body. I finally looked up, but I didn’t see anyone… I heard voices, the same man’s voice asking me “What happened? Can you tell me what happened?” over and over again, but it was all distant. The only ones that were in the room were me and my dead mother. Because of my guilt, she was all I saw. I partially came back to reality as the medics carried her out of the house, a cloth over her whole body. The man that was questioning me was shaking me now. Not too hard, because he didn’t want to scare me. My attention went to him now.
“Young lady, can you tell me what happened?”
I just stared at him, my mouth slightly agape. He swallowed and his face turned from friendly to grim, frustrated with me now. A few nurses came to my aid, quickly examining the lacerations on my arm. They seemed sickened, as if they hadn’t dealt with such wounds. However, they all set down their first-aid kits and got to work patching me up. After a while, everything seemed to grow hazy. I felt dizzy and everything became a blur. Everyone, the policemen and nurses, all looked at me and seemed to rush toward me. Fade to black............
Last edited by Masxira on Fri Jul 02, 2010 11:58 am, edited 1 time in total.
|
