(no subject)
we had to write a story for english class last week.. and i figured i'd post it so uh.. if you have no life or like 20 minutes to read this.. go for it.
I break into the house--second residence on Walton Street. I quietly sneak into the monotone bedroom. The walls are covered with an ugly, morose shade of grayish-blue. It is 1 AM already, and my plan was to take place at midnight. I'm late. I creep in, making sure to walk lightly on the creaky floorboards. I must be careful, for one sound could stir the sleeping beauty. I see a lump between the mattress and the comforter. I take a few more steps, and take the object from my coat pocket--my friend, my weapon, my knife. It gleams and shimmers in the moonlight, barely entering through the filthy window. It makes the "shying" sound like the sound of a sword being drawn in medieval times. I creep forward, inching closer and closer to my prey. She is so unsuspecting, so innocent, and so lovely. She is such a beautiful woman, if only I didn't have to do this job. If only I didn't have this unruly urge to kill. I inch closer and closer. So close, I can hear breathing, so softly. Her hair is so beautiful, full, and blonde. I feel so horrible. But I've got this driving urge to. I bring the knife to my face. I start to think, why am I doing this? Why am I here? I can't be doing this. What kind of monster am I? If I do this...I will never be able to live with myself. I'll never be able to forget the night I came to kill a woman. An innocent. No. I can't take it. This is it. This is the end.
"...And Sam took the knife, and slit his throat. He hit the jugular, so he wasn't in pain for long. I'm so sorry, ma'am," said the mortician.
"It-it's all right," said Mrs. Westwood, through hysterical sobs.
Mrs. Westwood stepped out of the office, still in tears. Her son had just died, and now she lived alone. She walked to her car, and drove home, not even thinking about what she was doing. It all came so natural to her to be driving alone, because her son never left the house. She just thought about how her arrival at home wouldn't be greeted by a "Hey mom, where were you?" or the loud sounds of his stereo blaring from upstairs. Alone in a large house where everything reminded her of her son and her husband, Irving, of 17 years. He had just died of lung cancer a little over a year ago, because when he was a teenager, he was a heavy smoker. Now that she was just getting over this, her son kills himself.
CRASH! She whipped around, hearing a loud sound from downstairs. She flew down the stairs as fast as a 64-year-old woman could go. She rounded the corner and saw nothing. The kitchen was empty, all except for the pan that was spinning and vibrating on the floor from the collision with the ground. She picked it up and set it on the counter top. Irving always did have butter fingers she reminisced. She took another look around the room--this time, more thoroughly. Nothing. She went into the living room, nothing. Bathroom, nothing. Den, bedroom, upstairs, attic--nothing. She didn't understand how something could have fallen if there was no one in the house but her. Then she thought the windows! She walked briskly down to the kitchen to check the windows, even though logically, a breeze from an open window couldn't have knocked a pan from a kitchen shelf. They weren't open. She was completely baffled. Well, it was already 9 o'clock, and she was dreadfully tired from the day's events, so she decided to retire for the evening, with the mind-set that no one was in her home but herself.
Throughout the night she tossed and turned from bad dreams and unpleasant thoughts. Then, as the tossing and the turning subsided, she stopped all movement, and her entire body relaxed. She lay there, as a slight smile formed across her cracked lips. She was dreaming that things that she loved dearly, including Sam, surrounded her. She was in a state of nirvana.
"Oh, Sam! Sam! I've missed you so much! Why did you do it?" she exclaimed with many mixed emotions flowing through her, and tears streaming down her face.
"Mother, mother, calm down. It's a very long story, and you don't have the time to hear about it. Now, see those trees over there?" he says, pointing. "Walk over there, and look behind it. There is someone waiting to see you."
"But--" she got cut short.
"No mother, I'm sorry. You must go," he said firmly.
She walked toward the direction Sam had pointed. Her steps got lighter and lighter as she kept going, till she felt like she was floating. She looked down, and in fact, was floating. She was standing atop a cloud, low to the ground. The cloud kept going in the direction that Sam sent her. She reached the tree line and found a silhouette of a man, standing in the dimming light of the sunset. She hopped off the cloud, and slowly walked toward the figure. He was smoking. Then she realized just who it was.
"Oh Irving!" she said, running toward his figure. She ran faster than any 64-year-old woman could ever think of going. "Oh my stars, Irving, I've missed you so much. I can't believe you're back! Life has been horrible without you around. Your son has killed himself and now I'm alone in this big house with no one to talking to," she rambled on.
"Honey, honey, calm down," Irving soothed, "I'm here now. I've been trying to contact you."
"Oh Irving..." she said falling into his arms, sobbing. She hugged him for as long as it took for the sun to finish setting. She felt so safe and loved in his imaginary arms. She heard his imaginary heart beating, in time with hers. She kissed his imaginary lips. She was in an amazing dream. She was speaking to her imaginary, unreal husband.
"Honey, it's going to be just fine," he said, trying to console her, "I know times are rough now, but believe me, and you have to, things will be better for you. Maybe not right away, but they will."
She gazed into his dreamy eyes, wondering when. When this would all come true for her. When the pain would stop and finally end the stress and loneliness cast upon her fragile heart. She felt so pitiful.
Suddenly, she started lucid dreaming. She had realized it was only a dream, but knew that, on some level, this was Irving trying to contact her and console her. She continued on with the dream, acting as if she didn't know.
"I know there is nothing that I can say to make all your miserable feelings disappear, but I do want you to know that I am here for you--in your heart and in your mind. I love you, Isabelle," said Irving, in the most loving, caring, tender voice she had ever heard. She knew he meant every word of it.
"I love you too, Irvi-" she was cut off from her dream by the blaring siren of her alarm clock. She rose, to find it 7 AM on a Saturday morning. She didn't have to go to work today, and she had set her alarm clock last night out of habit. She lay back down to go to sleep, but she couldn't. She was already awake. Then she realized that the pan falling was Irving! He said he had been trying to contact her, and now she understood. That was his way of getting her attention!
She took a shower, got dressed, and went to the market. When she got home, she found the pan on the ground again. It startled her at first, and then she realized it was Irving. She picked up the pan and put it back on the shelf, between a few other cooking utensils. There was no real way she could contact him back, so she decided to go on about her business of putting the groceries away.
She went into the living room and sat down on her big couch. She gripped the remote and pressed 13, the TV Guide Channel. She found nothing to be on, so she decided to put on a record and clean house. She bustled around, dusting and waxing. Within 45 minutes, the first floor was spotless and shiny. She felt very accomplished. Absolutely no finger prints, no dust specks, and no cleaner smudges. She then went to the second floor. She changed the sheets on her bed, cleaned the bathroom, walking by Sam's bedroom door. His radio was still on, but not playing. There had been a CD in there, and he had never turned it off. It wasn't on repeat, but it was on. Just looking into that room gave her chills. Not chills of fear, but chills of angst and loneliness. She was unsure if she could bring herself to walk through the door and turn it off, for it was running up the electric bill. She stepped through the doorway. Feelings raced through her like the Indy 500. She took another step, and the floor creaked. It made her jump, but she kept going. She pressed the power button, and the little red light faded to black. It was off. A tiny tear ran down her cheek, and fell to the floor. She looked around the room, it was like she'd never been there before, but she knew her way around, like a form of deja vu. She looked at the unmade bed. She decided to leave it. She wanted it to be like Sam had never left. But she knew he had. He was gone. She walked out, knowing it was the last time she was going in. She shut the door.
She then continued on with her cleaning. She moved up to the attic, which was cobweb city. She actually seemed excited, because she loved changing the look of things, and when she was done with this floor, it would be good as new. There were games for the grandkids, which there were none of, she just had high hopes. There were old lamps and pictures in antique picture frames. There was an old guitar and an organ. A mouse ran rapidly across the floor, but she wasn't afraid. Mice didn't bother her, they were just another living creature to her, and everything had to have somewhere to live. And this mouse was definitely going outside to live. She went downstairs and got a trap, and set it in the corner. Sure enough, within 10 minutes, she heard the loud snap. It got the mouse by the tail, so it would live. She took it outside and set it gently in the grass. It scurried off.
She went back inside and found a handprint, larger than hers, on the in table by the couch. Irving. What is he trying to tell me? She sighed. She didn't know what to do. She couldn't go to sleep now, for it was 2 PM, let alone yawn. She decided to just wait to talk to him again until tonight.
She continued to sweep and dust the attic. It took hours upon hours, and by the time she had actually finished, she was exhausted. Too exhausted too cook, so she decided to pop a TV dinner into the microwave and watch some TV. She ended up watching some TV drama. She fell asleep on the couch, mid-show and mid-dinner. The dreams began.
"Irving, what were you trying to tell me today while I was cleaning?" she asked.
"The mouse that you let go today," he began, "was Sam. He had been living in your house since he killed himself, as a mouse. And you letting him go was you letting your loneliness and angst go too. Your heart is rid of the pains of knowing that your son is gone. Now, I can not reassure you that you won't miss him, because we all know you will, but just know, that you've finally let go."
"Wow--but I mean--he's still gone. I'm not going to be able to get past that."
"Yes you will, doll, it's just like him going off to college in a foreign country. He won't be in the house anymore, but he will visit. Every time you see a mouse in your home, it's Sam."
"Well, I'll try."
"Thank you honey, that's all I ask."
She suddenly woke up to the electronic whir of the power going out. Her eyes opened to the sight of all the VCR and digital clocks blinking 12:00 and she knew that this was her opportunity for a new beginning. Everything was going to be fine.
I break into the house--second residence on Walton Street. I quietly sneak into the monotone bedroom. The walls are covered with an ugly, morose shade of grayish-blue. It is 1 AM already, and my plan was to take place at midnight. I'm late. I creep in, making sure to walk lightly on the creaky floorboards. I must be careful, for one sound could stir the sleeping beauty. I see a lump between the mattress and the comforter. I take a few more steps, and take the object from my coat pocket--my friend, my weapon, my knife. It gleams and shimmers in the moonlight, barely entering through the filthy window. It makes the "shying" sound like the sound of a sword being drawn in medieval times. I creep forward, inching closer and closer to my prey. She is so unsuspecting, so innocent, and so lovely. She is such a beautiful woman, if only I didn't have to do this job. If only I didn't have this unruly urge to kill. I inch closer and closer. So close, I can hear breathing, so softly. Her hair is so beautiful, full, and blonde. I feel so horrible. But I've got this driving urge to. I bring the knife to my face. I start to think, why am I doing this? Why am I here? I can't be doing this. What kind of monster am I? If I do this...I will never be able to live with myself. I'll never be able to forget the night I came to kill a woman. An innocent. No. I can't take it. This is it. This is the end.
"...And Sam took the knife, and slit his throat. He hit the jugular, so he wasn't in pain for long. I'm so sorry, ma'am," said the mortician.
"It-it's all right," said Mrs. Westwood, through hysterical sobs.
Mrs. Westwood stepped out of the office, still in tears. Her son had just died, and now she lived alone. She walked to her car, and drove home, not even thinking about what she was doing. It all came so natural to her to be driving alone, because her son never left the house. She just thought about how her arrival at home wouldn't be greeted by a "Hey mom, where were you?" or the loud sounds of his stereo blaring from upstairs. Alone in a large house where everything reminded her of her son and her husband, Irving, of 17 years. He had just died of lung cancer a little over a year ago, because when he was a teenager, he was a heavy smoker. Now that she was just getting over this, her son kills himself.
CRASH! She whipped around, hearing a loud sound from downstairs. She flew down the stairs as fast as a 64-year-old woman could go. She rounded the corner and saw nothing. The kitchen was empty, all except for the pan that was spinning and vibrating on the floor from the collision with the ground. She picked it up and set it on the counter top. Irving always did have butter fingers she reminisced. She took another look around the room--this time, more thoroughly. Nothing. She went into the living room, nothing. Bathroom, nothing. Den, bedroom, upstairs, attic--nothing. She didn't understand how something could have fallen if there was no one in the house but her. Then she thought the windows! She walked briskly down to the kitchen to check the windows, even though logically, a breeze from an open window couldn't have knocked a pan from a kitchen shelf. They weren't open. She was completely baffled. Well, it was already 9 o'clock, and she was dreadfully tired from the day's events, so she decided to retire for the evening, with the mind-set that no one was in her home but herself.
Throughout the night she tossed and turned from bad dreams and unpleasant thoughts. Then, as the tossing and the turning subsided, she stopped all movement, and her entire body relaxed. She lay there, as a slight smile formed across her cracked lips. She was dreaming that things that she loved dearly, including Sam, surrounded her. She was in a state of nirvana.
"Oh, Sam! Sam! I've missed you so much! Why did you do it?" she exclaimed with many mixed emotions flowing through her, and tears streaming down her face.
"Mother, mother, calm down. It's a very long story, and you don't have the time to hear about it. Now, see those trees over there?" he says, pointing. "Walk over there, and look behind it. There is someone waiting to see you."
"But--" she got cut short.
"No mother, I'm sorry. You must go," he said firmly.
She walked toward the direction Sam had pointed. Her steps got lighter and lighter as she kept going, till she felt like she was floating. She looked down, and in fact, was floating. She was standing atop a cloud, low to the ground. The cloud kept going in the direction that Sam sent her. She reached the tree line and found a silhouette of a man, standing in the dimming light of the sunset. She hopped off the cloud, and slowly walked toward the figure. He was smoking. Then she realized just who it was.
"Oh Irving!" she said, running toward his figure. She ran faster than any 64-year-old woman could ever think of going. "Oh my stars, Irving, I've missed you so much. I can't believe you're back! Life has been horrible without you around. Your son has killed himself and now I'm alone in this big house with no one to talking to," she rambled on.
"Honey, honey, calm down," Irving soothed, "I'm here now. I've been trying to contact you."
"Oh Irving..." she said falling into his arms, sobbing. She hugged him for as long as it took for the sun to finish setting. She felt so safe and loved in his imaginary arms. She heard his imaginary heart beating, in time with hers. She kissed his imaginary lips. She was in an amazing dream. She was speaking to her imaginary, unreal husband.
"Honey, it's going to be just fine," he said, trying to console her, "I know times are rough now, but believe me, and you have to, things will be better for you. Maybe not right away, but they will."
She gazed into his dreamy eyes, wondering when. When this would all come true for her. When the pain would stop and finally end the stress and loneliness cast upon her fragile heart. She felt so pitiful.
Suddenly, she started lucid dreaming. She had realized it was only a dream, but knew that, on some level, this was Irving trying to contact her and console her. She continued on with the dream, acting as if she didn't know.
"I know there is nothing that I can say to make all your miserable feelings disappear, but I do want you to know that I am here for you--in your heart and in your mind. I love you, Isabelle," said Irving, in the most loving, caring, tender voice she had ever heard. She knew he meant every word of it.
"I love you too, Irvi-" she was cut off from her dream by the blaring siren of her alarm clock. She rose, to find it 7 AM on a Saturday morning. She didn't have to go to work today, and she had set her alarm clock last night out of habit. She lay back down to go to sleep, but she couldn't. She was already awake. Then she realized that the pan falling was Irving! He said he had been trying to contact her, and now she understood. That was his way of getting her attention!
She took a shower, got dressed, and went to the market. When she got home, she found the pan on the ground again. It startled her at first, and then she realized it was Irving. She picked up the pan and put it back on the shelf, between a few other cooking utensils. There was no real way she could contact him back, so she decided to go on about her business of putting the groceries away.
She went into the living room and sat down on her big couch. She gripped the remote and pressed 13, the TV Guide Channel. She found nothing to be on, so she decided to put on a record and clean house. She bustled around, dusting and waxing. Within 45 minutes, the first floor was spotless and shiny. She felt very accomplished. Absolutely no finger prints, no dust specks, and no cleaner smudges. She then went to the second floor. She changed the sheets on her bed, cleaned the bathroom, walking by Sam's bedroom door. His radio was still on, but not playing. There had been a CD in there, and he had never turned it off. It wasn't on repeat, but it was on. Just looking into that room gave her chills. Not chills of fear, but chills of angst and loneliness. She was unsure if she could bring herself to walk through the door and turn it off, for it was running up the electric bill. She stepped through the doorway. Feelings raced through her like the Indy 500. She took another step, and the floor creaked. It made her jump, but she kept going. She pressed the power button, and the little red light faded to black. It was off. A tiny tear ran down her cheek, and fell to the floor. She looked around the room, it was like she'd never been there before, but she knew her way around, like a form of deja vu. She looked at the unmade bed. She decided to leave it. She wanted it to be like Sam had never left. But she knew he had. He was gone. She walked out, knowing it was the last time she was going in. She shut the door.
She then continued on with her cleaning. She moved up to the attic, which was cobweb city. She actually seemed excited, because she loved changing the look of things, and when she was done with this floor, it would be good as new. There were games for the grandkids, which there were none of, she just had high hopes. There were old lamps and pictures in antique picture frames. There was an old guitar and an organ. A mouse ran rapidly across the floor, but she wasn't afraid. Mice didn't bother her, they were just another living creature to her, and everything had to have somewhere to live. And this mouse was definitely going outside to live. She went downstairs and got a trap, and set it in the corner. Sure enough, within 10 minutes, she heard the loud snap. It got the mouse by the tail, so it would live. She took it outside and set it gently in the grass. It scurried off.
She went back inside and found a handprint, larger than hers, on the in table by the couch. Irving. What is he trying to tell me? She sighed. She didn't know what to do. She couldn't go to sleep now, for it was 2 PM, let alone yawn. She decided to just wait to talk to him again until tonight.
She continued to sweep and dust the attic. It took hours upon hours, and by the time she had actually finished, she was exhausted. Too exhausted too cook, so she decided to pop a TV dinner into the microwave and watch some TV. She ended up watching some TV drama. She fell asleep on the couch, mid-show and mid-dinner. The dreams began.
"Irving, what were you trying to tell me today while I was cleaning?" she asked.
"The mouse that you let go today," he began, "was Sam. He had been living in your house since he killed himself, as a mouse. And you letting him go was you letting your loneliness and angst go too. Your heart is rid of the pains of knowing that your son is gone. Now, I can not reassure you that you won't miss him, because we all know you will, but just know, that you've finally let go."
"Wow--but I mean--he's still gone. I'm not going to be able to get past that."
"Yes you will, doll, it's just like him going off to college in a foreign country. He won't be in the house anymore, but he will visit. Every time you see a mouse in your home, it's Sam."
"Well, I'll try."
"Thank you honey, that's all I ask."
She suddenly woke up to the electronic whir of the power going out. Her eyes opened to the sight of all the VCR and digital clocks blinking 12:00 and she knew that this was her opportunity for a new beginning. Everything was going to be fine.