Original: Untitled: G
Title: Untitled
Rating: G
Summary: Self-explainable.
Warnings: The first paragraph is missing, but you can sort of gather what it was.
Authors Notes: Again with the English folder.
I couldn't believe it. I was absolutely horrified. This wasn't the young girl I had met on the internet. This was some old hag, some scary old lady. If I look closely, I could see a strange resemblance to the eyes of the girl.
I should run. Just turn around and walk back to the busstop and catch the next bus to come along. I'm supposed to be at school, not in some seedy neighbourhood meeting someone from the internet.
I wipe my hands on my faded jeans, they're so sweaty.
What should I do?
I start to back away from the door slowly. The wooden planks of the porch are uneven and falling apart, the nails coming up. I trip, start to fall.
The door opens and a hand reaches out. The hand grasps my own, that I have thrown out in an effort to balance myself. The skin on the other hand is wrinkled and old, pale with veins popping out, dry and a bit flaky. It isn't at all like my own grandmothers, whose hands are still smooth and well, human.
The old lady is surprisingly strong and she pulls me upright with ease. Her voice is old, croaky, and worn with age as she invited me inside. I follow, (that's all I got up to at school) my legs taking me inside, though I still want to turn and run back to the busstop. Something has made me curious about this old lady, in this small cottage. Maybe it was her reflexes, how quickly she opened the door and grabbed my hand as I fell. It might be that she is so strong for her age, an age I can only assume to be well over fifty, sixty, or seventy even, and I may look slim and fit, but I weigh more than my body lets on.
She directs me to an old recliner, the material a bit scruffy and the cushions overstuffed. I sit, my nerves gone. My hands shake as I wipe them against my jeans, they still sweat.
I look around the room I'm in as the old lady goes to a door and calls out in a language that sounds Russian. There's portaits and paintings lining the walls. The portaits are mainly of a small child, who grows as they progress. The paintings, scenery of a far off country, again I assume Russia.
The lady comes back and my eyes are drawn away from the faded walls and over to her as she sits across me. I hear footsteps and start to panic, my heart had only just started to calm down slightly and now it was beating as fast as ever.
I look over to the doorway where the old lady had been standing, and my eyes widen, a small smiles breaks out on my face and I relax.
It's the girl. She was carrying a tray of cups and saucers and treats, a smile on her face as she saw me.
Rating: G
Summary: Self-explainable.
Warnings: The first paragraph is missing, but you can sort of gather what it was.
Authors Notes: Again with the English folder.
I couldn't believe it. I was absolutely horrified. This wasn't the young girl I had met on the internet. This was some old hag, some scary old lady. If I look closely, I could see a strange resemblance to the eyes of the girl.
I should run. Just turn around and walk back to the busstop and catch the next bus to come along. I'm supposed to be at school, not in some seedy neighbourhood meeting someone from the internet.
I wipe my hands on my faded jeans, they're so sweaty.
What should I do?
I start to back away from the door slowly. The wooden planks of the porch are uneven and falling apart, the nails coming up. I trip, start to fall.
The door opens and a hand reaches out. The hand grasps my own, that I have thrown out in an effort to balance myself. The skin on the other hand is wrinkled and old, pale with veins popping out, dry and a bit flaky. It isn't at all like my own grandmothers, whose hands are still smooth and well, human.
The old lady is surprisingly strong and she pulls me upright with ease. Her voice is old, croaky, and worn with age as she invited me inside. I follow, (that's all I got up to at school) my legs taking me inside, though I still want to turn and run back to the busstop. Something has made me curious about this old lady, in this small cottage. Maybe it was her reflexes, how quickly she opened the door and grabbed my hand as I fell. It might be that she is so strong for her age, an age I can only assume to be well over fifty, sixty, or seventy even, and I may look slim and fit, but I weigh more than my body lets on.
She directs me to an old recliner, the material a bit scruffy and the cushions overstuffed. I sit, my nerves gone. My hands shake as I wipe them against my jeans, they still sweat.
I look around the room I'm in as the old lady goes to a door and calls out in a language that sounds Russian. There's portaits and paintings lining the walls. The portaits are mainly of a small child, who grows as they progress. The paintings, scenery of a far off country, again I assume Russia.
The lady comes back and my eyes are drawn away from the faded walls and over to her as she sits across me. I hear footsteps and start to panic, my heart had only just started to calm down slightly and now it was beating as fast as ever.
I look over to the doorway where the old lady had been standing, and my eyes widen, a small smiles breaks out on my face and I relax.
It's the girl. She was carrying a tray of cups and saucers and treats, a smile on her face as she saw me.