With sewed lips and glued eyes she’d put her first quivering step on the stairs of cellar. Before climbing down, she’d leave her mortified ‘self’ on a shelf beside the cellar door. Her exhausted 10 years old corpse would soon drag itself down to the cold ground where sinful darkness would cloak her.
A pair of blackheavy boots would instantly follow her down. The sound of their hammering knocks matches the rhythm of her thumping heart. As it reaches more close, her frightened heart rips apart her chest and falls right in the middle of his feet. The bleeding that follows would be far less than the one that happens just before he leaves her there.
His hands reach for her clothes. Her body turns to a rock. Her heart would squirm like a fish out of water, lying right beside her as the water in her stone eyes dry out. Her teeth would bite hard into the flesh of her rosy lips.
A tough blow from one of his boots makes her alive again.
She draws a long burning breath in, in a desperate hope of it to be the last one. Hope laughs. She falls into the arms of despair yet once again.
On the way back, she never forgets to take back her ‘self’from the shelf beside the cellar door…
She helps her mother cook food for her father. It is time for her mother to go to her teaching job. She want to beg her not to go but she can’t.
As she serves food to her father, she could feel a burning sensation on her skin where he stares. She looks down on his feet.
His blackheavy boots are covered in blood…
Almost 90,000 cases of child sexual abuse are reported each year. Out of which, 96% are known to their victims and 20% are fathers. (Advocates for Youth, 1995)
It starts with a heavy pinpoint, sharp, deep in the middle of my heart. As I read Mic’s letter, it swells and blooms, licks like fire through my veins.
It’s a cold windy day and I’m at the window table trying to read the first letter he sent me. At least that is what I should be doing but I spend more time watching the dry leaves clattering across the sidewalk.
I sat here daily, for twenty years with a shotgun in hand. That shotgun is replaced by letters now.
He said, “I’d come back to you no matter what happens”.
I promised him, “I’ll wait for you, forever”
It’s growing dark and the streets are already empty. It has been a chilly, depressing day. I could hear howling wind and one long, repeated call — a bird perhaps.
The feeling I felt then, was love underneath, but it was wrapped in something hard and cold and perpetual.
Death has followed me for 40 years. Death came for my father first, it sputtered him out like a spent candle. I was seven then. 10 years later it took my mother. Everything I ever loved was gone with the tilt and flare of a scented candle against a curtain. Since then, I resolved never to put myself in a situation that could shatter the way my childhood did. The only way to avoid death was to run.
It worked perfectly for nine years until I met Mic. I felt life exuding from him, surging and bright. For a moment I was certain Death must be looking elsewhere. It stirred at my shoulder, tickled my ear, reminded me it was watching, waiting, poised to poison anyone I opened my heart to.
Everyday little letters from Mic, yellow envelopes addressed in green pen, would wait for me. I replied back, I told him about my father, my mother. About Death on my shoulder.
That day, I was woken from a lay-in by a tentative knock at the door. It was Mic. I was overwhelmed, frozen. He dived at me, wrapped his arms around me. My heartbeats were so golden and warm Death didn’t stand a chance.
You can’t keep him… Death whispered, nervous. Run, before it hurts.
It offered me it’s most enthusiastic ‘contrafibularities‘ that could never be defined just as death could never be defined.
I smiled. And said yes to Mic’s proposal. Because I thought Death couldn’t catch either of us if we’d run together.
The shrill call comes again, thin, high, and mournful. What kind of bird calls like that? Something is out there.
The wind is tapping branches against the window. I look out but see nothing. Dusk is falling but the street lamps are not on yet. Then I see a tiny movement right under my window. Something is crouching below the marigold bushes. A hurt bird, perhaps?
After they reported Mic dead, I began to keep the shotgun next to the front door.
I’d sit for hours beside my window table staring outside, thinking that the day he’d return, reeking of decay, I’d run a finger down the barrel of the shotgun, propped beside me.
“Thank you for coming. I waited for you” I’d say.
“I promised.” He’d smile under the bullet hole they would have put through his forehead. Dried blood would flake off of his eyelid when he’d blink.
“I’m not coming with you,” I’d say.
“Death has done us part. Let it join us together once again.” He’d say.
“I have decided to fight against it” I’d tell him.
I drape myself in a warm brown shawl and open the door to see what that thing is.
A small bundle of grey fur, a tiny kitten, hope ? almost lost in the gloom. It meows, a thin, desperate sound.
When I pick it up, it is ice cold and I can feel every vertebrae. It’s nothing but a skeleton. I look out for any scratches or bites, she was safe. I take it into the warmth and give her milk. It opens great green eyes and looks at me. It rumbles in an attempt to purr. After a while it curls up in my lap.
Some people don’t understand the promises they’re making when they make them, he can’t blame me for breaking mine. Before moving on, for twenty years, with a shotgun in my hand, I sat there and waited, but he never came back.
Okay I’m in love with the zombie apocalypse, the idea fascinates me so much. I’m sorry if it disgusts you 😉 The story is written about the time when zombies would be somehow sensible, they’d actually remember things rather than just “Brains”.
More or less 740 words story written for speakeasy. The challenge this time was to use, “I sat there and waited, but he never came back” as the last line and give some kind of reference to a scene from the British comedy show, Blackadder the Third. Hope you enjoyed. Click on the badge to see detailed rules and other entries on Tuesday.
I am in love with that wonderful women who performs on the stage and people hold their breaths, their hearts skip the beats and magic of her glory en-wraps them in ecstatic joys — People say that she knows spell of bewitchment and she makes people unconscious by casting it but I don’t believe this, her magical beauty is mysterious enough to get entranced in.
She has booked a room that was abandoned for forty years, the room that is well known by a story that a woman burnt herself and her child here, forty years ago.
I can hear my own foot steps as I walk towards her room, my heart beats in my ears and I feel shivers while walking through that dead silent corridor but my fear is invaded over by excitement to meet that magnificent lady.
The door opens with an unfamiliar noise, tearing apart the intense silence — There lies a coffin in the center of an empty room and I am in a trance of that glowing beauty again as I open the cover.
I try to pull her out wondering who may have imprisoned my love inside the coffin, when I feel my leg clutched by tiny hands — I turn around and see a small child looking towards me with pain in eyes… Everything went dark.
A Flash fiction written for Lillie McFerrin Writes : Five Sentence Fiction – Clutch. We have to include the word “clutch” in our story and take inspiration from the photo given. Five sentences is what this challenge requires, no word limit. Click on the link if you want to participate.
Her soft breaths gradually converted to heavy fast storms. Her heart beats were drumming in her ears as if they’ll tear apart her ribs. She could feel uncountable needles stabbing in her head. She fell down……
“Not again, No” She was crying and shrieking hysterically.
“What happened Mama?” Her 7 years old son, Ali, came running towards her.
She looked at his face, she couldn’t. Grabbing his hand she pulled him towards herself and embraced him in her arms.
“Nothing My Love, I won’t let anything happen to you” Gazing at the red letter in her hand, she sighed.
Rachael was drowned in the valley of thoughts while Ali was sleeping right beside her. Windows were closed and the room was dark and silent. Sometimes a gust of frosted wind would scatter the silence with its whispers.
They were a happily-ever-after family 7 years ago. Ali wasn’t born by that time. Her two sons and beloved husband shared the same house where today, silence regulates.
When Rachael received this red letter for the first time, she was unknown of the consequences. She came to know when the very next day, her husband met an accident and he passed away.
She was scattered. She would never have related the death to that letter if one by one, both her sons wouldn’t have passed away in the same mysterious manner.
She was sure there was ‘something’ behind all this. Something esoteric, something inexplicable.
And now she had received that red letter again. Her baffled mind started freezing with the weather.
A sound woke her up. She felt like she had heard a whisper. She checked Ali, he was sleeping. She checked the time, it was 2 o’ clock at night.
A sudden sharp cracking sound outside the window startled her. Her heart beat and pulse rate were at a race. She slipped towards the window slowly and peeked through the glass. She couldn’t see anything. It was dark and calm.
She took a long sigh.
She turned back. A panic-stricken scream welled up and burst out of her mouth. Her eyes bulged out with shock and dark condensed clouds blocked her mind.
The bed was vacant, Ali was gone.
A furiously loud knock at the door drummed in her ears……