Prompt: the song 24 Floors by The Maine
September 20 He’d been seeing her on the bus every day now. Ever since the new year had started, the same girl had been sitting in his bus, every morning. She got in four stops after his, but didn’t get out at his stop. She looked nice. She always smiled at the busdriver as he came in, and at other people when they made eye contact. She’d smiled at him, too. It was almost more than he could handle. October 14 She hadn’t missed a day yet! He had. Everyone had been down with the flu lately, so his mother had let him stay home a few days. The week after that, he’d seen her in the bus, obviously ill. She was pale, but with bright red cheeks, constantly blowing her nose. Yet she still took the bus every morning that week. He respected that. She had a routine, and she didn’t break it. He liked routine. He pretended that her becoming part of his routine was the only reason he looked at her so often. December 2 He couldn’t pretend it was routine anymore. Not when she smiled at him every morning before taking her seat halfway in the bus. It was the highlight of his day, and she never failed to deliver. He’d been observing her for so long now, it felt like he knew her. He knew where she lived, for example. The bus had been a few minutes early one day, and as they stood at her stop, she came running out of the house besides it, waving at the busdriver. She didn’t need to; the busdriver recognized her as much as he did. “Don’t worry about it kid, I’d wait for you”, and she had thanked him, smiling, and taking her usual seat. December 18 His younger brother told him he was obsessed. He had told him about the mystery girl, about whom he knew so much but not her name, on a late Friday night as they were gaming. He really wasn’t obsessed. It wasn’t his fault that he’d learned so much about her just by sitting in a bus. He’d learned:
January 9 She wore a lot more black than she wore colours, lately. Her makeup had been darker too. He didn’t mind; he thought it looked good on her. His little brother told him he thought everything looked good on her. But he couldn’t judge on that, could he? After all, he’d only seen her in that many outfits. Far too early to make an opinion on those things. February 14 A lot of happy people sat in the bus, often carrying roses. She stood out; she didn’t seem happy at all. He felt bad for her. He didn’t know if she had a boyfriend, but maybe she just felt bad for not having a Valentine? He wanted to be her Valentine, but he couldn’t open his mouth to talk to her. It was just physically impossible. He tried, he really did. But the one time he only managed, he started coughing, and then almost choked on air, and she hadn’t even noticed how he was almost dying a few seats behind her. It was a hopeless case. February 27 It was a great day. It was sunny, and it never was sunny in England. He was wearing a shirt, having felt brave enough to leave his coat at home. He knew he’d regret that in the afternoon; it would rain. It always did. But now, he felt brave and cool. Maybe she’d do more than smile today. Or maybe, he would return that smile properly. He didn’t, obviously. He didn’t even dare look at her. He did notice though, that she was wearing a hoodie. Maybe she was just cold. March 8 They had been getting a lot of good days recently. It felt weird, wrong. Like something bad was about to happen and this was destiny’s way of making up for it beforehand. Not that he minded. He loved the weather, loved his days even more, hoping every day that she’d leave her hoodie at home since the sun was shining. But she never did. Instead, even if the weather got happier, she seemed to get sadder. He didn’t understand. Didn’t everyone get happy when there was sunshine? March 20 She’d been crying. He’d been shocked. She had stared at the floor of the bus as she took her seat, and as he left, he could see tear stains on her cheeks. He felt so bad for her, but he didn’t understand. She always seemed so happy, she was too cute to be bullied, she had a friend, she didn’t have annoying parents, she had the house to herself. He’d seen it, the other day, as the bus had to wait for a truck. The garden was messy, not kept as neat and tidy as his own. It looked empty, and he would love having such a big house to himself. He had only seen the car he assumed belonged to her parents three times this month. He envied her so much. March 30 She didn’t smile at him anymore. She didn’t smile at anyone, but it particularly hurt that she didn’t smile at him anymore. He wondered if he did anything wrong, and figured that now wouldn’t be the best moment to finally talk to her. April 5 She wasn’t at the bus stop. The busdriver waited for several minutes, and he could tell the other people in the bus were getting antsy at the driver for standing still so long. Eventually he shrugged, and drove on. He worried the entire day. She’d never missed a day. April 7 She hadn’t shown up the day before. This morning, as they pulled up at her stop, the busdriver still looking outside, expecting her to show up, he saw several cars outside. It was the first time he’d seen people around her house. They were all dressed in black. May 15 She’d never returned to the bus, and he knew that she probably never would. He’d never gotten her name, and he’d never been able to talk to her. He regretted that. A lot. But he made himself another promise, and this one, he would keep. He would think of her, every day, even if just for a few minutes, as he sat in the bus. He wouldn’t forget her, wherever she was. It became his new routine.
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Prompt: A story with a countdown
10 He opened his eyes, dazed. His surroundings seemed foreign to him, his head ached like he’d hit it before ending up on the cold floor, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was forgetting something very important as he shook the dust from his hair and stood. He brushed off his clothes, wondering how they had become stained with fine, white dust that stained his black jeans when he tried to brush it off. His attempts left him with big white stains on his jeans, and he shrugged. He didn’t know what he was doing here anyway, and frankly he didn’t care. So why bother looking like he cared? He looked around him. He realized that it looked like an abandoned warehouse, with the doors that must have once been painted grey, the small tiles on the floor and the large windows at one side. He walked over to them, but as his eyes adjusted to the lack of light, he realized that looking through the windows wouldn’t bring him anywhere. In fact, the windows were even more stained than his jeans, and no matter how hard he wiped them with his hand, even with his blouse, they wouldn’t clean. Then he remembered that he wasn’t supposed to care, and he turned his back to the window, searching his memories. The only thing he knew was that he didn't care about where he was. No, that wasn’t true. He wasn’t supposed to care. He was aware that he had a goal, and he knew that he would recognize the goal when he saw it. He didn’t ponder on that knowledge, didn’t wonder on what the goal could be. He realized that maybe, that was why they had chosen him to do this; he didn’t follow the usual thinking patterns. He knew enough. Yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was forgetting something, something important. 9 The man without memory, the man with a goal, wandered through the building. He tried to open every door he saw; sometimes with success, sometimes he had to leave them alone. One he managed to kick open, and he hadn’t been able to suppress the victorious feeling, that quickly had been replaced with disappointment as he looked into another empty room. He felt like kicking the door again, just to get rid of his frustration, but something told him that it wouldn’t help at all, and he refrained from it. Instead, he just returned to the previous room, knowing that he had to keep going. He opened another door, entering something that obviously had once been an office. It contained two desks, filled with cracked laptops, the remains of a stack of paper, and he could even see a small notepad that had once been yellow. There was a phone that had long stopped working, chairs that looked like they would fall apart if you even touched them, but something was missing. He wasn’t sure what, but it tied in with this nagging feeling that he was forgetting something. 8 The discovery to a staircase was his biggest yet, and it made him slightly excited, wondering if he was closer to discovering his goal. Filled with adrenaline, but also wary of whatever could come, he’d gone up, feeling like that was the way to go. He had no idea what floor he was on; unlike he had expected, there had been no signs whatsoever. He did, however, notice a slightly discoloured spot on the wall as he went up; obviously, there had once been a sign with the floor number. He shrugged. If it wasn’t there, it couldn’t be important. He wanted to go up all the way, but realized that going floor by floor would be the more sensible thing to do. He encountered more offices on the next floor, each one the same as the previous one, like offices usually were. But still he felt like every office missed something. It wasn’t the fact that the entire building was abandoned; he didn’t mind and he enjoyed the peace. Besides, the building would have been even stranger if it had been filled with businessmen and ringing phones, since everything inside was broken. But even like this, the building missed something; something each office should have, something he expected even in the hallways. But he couldn’t place it. It just left him worried. 7 He’d covered four floors right now, and hadn’t discovered anything. He didn’t feel like he was making progress, although in the strict sense of the word, he was. Instead, he felt like the opposite; like with every step, he was further away from his goal. But he didn’t have an alternative, and for the first time since waking up on that floor, he felt the slightest annoyance at his circumstances, at his lack of memories. The nagging feeling that he was forgetting something important didn’t help at all. Constantly, he felt like he was ignoring something, an aspect of his mission, and it didn’t make him the confident man he was at the first floor. But he kept going, since he didn’t have an alternative, couldn’t think of anything else, and because he knew that he could only achieve his goal if he kept going. 6 At the sixth floor, he felt a little more confident again. He felt like he was getting closer to his goal, like he was making progress again. Shortly, he wondered if it would have been more sensible to have skipped all those floors and go up immediately, and he wondered if his instinct had been right. The nagging feeling arose again, as he wondered, and so he pushed the thought aside, focussing instead on the next floor. It was different from the others. It seemed more luxury, with softer chairs, larger desks, more coffee machines, and even something that once could have been a fridge. The windows were larger but still didn’t give anything away. He thought of throwing something, of breaking the windows, but he knew his goal was inside this building, or he would have woken up outside. 5 The eighth floor didn’t contain offices, but conference rooms. The rooms were large, filled with long tables, something he guessed once had been microphones, the floor was covered in tapestry and there were paintings on some walls. In the front of each room stood a high desk, something that he associated with important people and speeches. He associated with a life he would never want to have, which made him leave the floor quickly. Whatever his goal was, it wasn’t here. 4 The floor above that didn’t get much attention from the man, either. It had once been a cafeteria, he assumed; and whatever had happened here, the food had been left behind. He regretted opening the door as soon as he did, and slammed it shut immediately. The smell was terrible. 3 He went up another floor, resisting the urge to try and see how many floors there were left; he knew he couldn’t see it anyway. He approached the door more carefully this time, the stench of the floor below him still apparent in his nose. But to his surprise, the door refused to open, no matter how hard he tried or how many kicks he threw at the door. He didn’t even stop to wonder if the goal could lie behind closed doors, but turned his back and went up the stairs again. The nagging feeling was gone, had been replaced by the need to keep going, keep going higher until he found his goal. For the first time since waking up, he felt like something was pushing him forward, but he couldn’t identify it. All he knew was that he had to keep going before he found out what the nagging feeling was about. 2 The stairs had more steps this time; opposed to the earlier thirty, he had now already had sixty steps and he was still going. Excitement grew, adrenaline joined the game; the man now knew three things. He had a goal, he would recognize the goal if he was there, and he was close to the goal. He knew a fourth thing, too, as he kept going on the seemingly endless stairs: he was forgetting something. He could only hope it wasn’t vital. 1 He reached the end of the stairs, after 171 steps. His breathing was slightly ragged, but that was the only thing that betrayed the long stairs that now lay behind him. He wasn’t really surprised to find that this was the end of the stairs, that he had reached the top floor. He knew that he had been right all this time; his goal lay at the top floor. He’d been wasting time with checking out every floor below him. He opened the last door, a blue one this time, the first colour he’d seen here, to reveal a blinding light. He stood for a moment as his eyes adjusted, when he realized what he had just been thinking. He had been wasting time. Time. And just like that, he knew what had been missing in the offices. There were no clocks, nowhere. That was what the nagging feeling was about; time. He’d been running out of time- 0 Prompt: A story that starts with a gunshot
A loud bang echoed through the empty warehouse and the bright haired girl dove for cover, ignoring the impact on her body as she crashed on the ground. She quickly sat up, hiding behind a cart filled with boxes, her gun out, knowing she needed better cover. She looked around, saw a car, ran towards it while shooting at her attacker. She hadn’t been alone her, but everyone else seemed to have cleared out in the last few minutes before everything went to hell. She reached the car safely, her constant shots making her attacker unable to fire at her. She pulled more ammo from her backpack, easily accessing the pocket at the side, quickly reloading. She really, really needed to stop doing this. She was getting too old for this bullshit. She was twenty-five for fuck’s sake! She fell on her stomach, eyeing the floor from underneath the car. There. Feet, moving rapidly but silently towards her. She aimed, pulled the trigger, hitting the foot. At the same time, she caught movement towards her right, but it didn’t worry her. She knew only one person here was aiming to kill her, the rest were just enjoying the show. She got up, straightened up, aimed and shot her attacker in his shoulder, and then, as he went down, in the other hand. She never killed anyone; but it wasn’t her fault if they weren’t able to get help soon enough. If he was smart, he’d stop the bleeding and call 911; maybe he even had some friends around to do that for him. If he couldn’t do any of that, well, too bad then, it wasn’t her fault. Well, not directly. And it wasn’t as if she’d shot him in cold blood; he’d been shooting at her too, the bastard. She walked towards the man, kicking his cap off and meeting surprisingly dark eyes, filled with hate. She kicked his gun away, and then saw something grabbed tightly in his hand. A trigger. Her eyes widened and the man grinned, as he pushed the button. Nothing happened. Not yet. Delay. A few seconds maybe. She yelled: “BOMB”, nobody else needed to die because of this. Then she took off, counting the seconds, unsure of how many she had but sure it were too little. From her right, someone took off too and somewhere she realized that she had indeed not been alone. But she was mostly focused on running. She skidded through the hallway, and at nineteen seconds jumped at a window. The figure running behind her did so too, slightly earlier than she, as she heard class shatter at eighteen seconds. At nineteen, she jumped and more glass shattered. At twenty, before she even hit the ground, she could feel the air thrusting her further into the sky, she felt the warmth behind her, getting too hot to be comfortable. She kept counting as she curled into a ball in the sky, seeing the other figure already in a ball hiding behind a car. At twenty-two, she hit the ground. Hard. At twenty-four she couldn’t see a hand before her eyes. She held her breath and didn’t dare to move as bricks, glass and all other sorts of stuff fell around her, sometimes on her. At thirty-five she opened her eyes again, not realizing she’d closed them. It didn’t make a difference, the world was black with smoke around her. She could hear the fire, and knew she needed to get out of here. At forty, she stood again, falling down when a piece of wood or stone hit her in the back. At forty-two she put her arms over her head protectively as another bomb exploded, in another part of the building. At forty-nine, she felt something. Someone was tugging at her arm. She opened her eyes, saw a man standing there, pointing to something, his mouth moving. At fifty-one she realized she couldn’t hear a thing except a beep. At fifty-three, the man helped her up and she ignored the pain as she followed him through the smoke. At one minute and three seconds, they reached the parking lot and the smoke was slightly less. She breathed. The man pointed to a car and his mouth moved again. She just shook her head and pointed to her ears. He nodded, understandingly, and used his finger to write something in the dust that was now everywhere. “Got a car. Let’s get out of here before the cops show.” She nodded and got into said car. At two minutes and thirty-two seconds, they were out of the smoke, on the driveway, and slowly her hearing returned. At three minutes exactly, the man spoke. “Can you hear me now?” She nodded. “Not great, but yeah. Thanks.” He shrugged, keeping his eyes on the road. “If you hadn’t called out I would have been in pieces now. So thank you.” “Hadn’t expected that one. Was kinda surprising. I should have seen it though.” He glanced at her quickly but waited for an explanation. She didn’t give one. Instead, she repeated herself. “I’m getting too old for this bullshit.” The man beside her laughed. “Cheers to that, mate. Let me buy you a drink. To celebrate that we survived. After we get those nasty cuts cleaned up.” She pulled a mirror from the battered backpack and realized that indeed, she had some nasty cuts. The throbbing in her back returned and she suddenly regretted that his car interior was now smeared with blood, apologizing to him. “Don’t worry, it’s not the first time,” he said, as he parked at a small gas station and reached behind his chair to reveal two bottles of whiskey and a first aid box. She accepted a bottle and took a big swig, and he copied her movements. “Time to get a real job, huh? Some desk work, settling down, leaving the gun behind. Not jumping from exploding buildings anymore.” She laughed, and took another swig. “I’d never leave this behind.” The man nodded in agreement. “Me neither. Cheers to gunshots and explosions.” Prompt: the song Permanent Vacation by 5 Seconds of Summer
She will run away to chase her dreams The words were on her wall, in bold letters made with black tape. She always promised herself that she’d stay true to the promise that her 12-year old rebel self had put op in her room. She’d put the quote there in a time where she was opposed to everything, just because she could; like any 12-year old wanting more freedom and wishing she was older. But the 18-year old student that she’d become was different, sensible. That girl worked hard, showed up in time, never missed a deadline and still had time for her friends. She seemed to be a happy girl, and for a long time she’d thought she was happy. But a new year had started, and her social media feed was filled with encouragements to chase your dreams, to do the things you always wanted to do, to reach your goals, always complemented with the #newbeginning. Although she usually ignored these things, she found herself staring at them more often than intended. She found herself going through the pictures of an old co-worker who’d taken his bags and moved to Australia, planning on finding a job there for a year. She found herself looking at all the messages that said that now was the time to do a certain thing, and her heart ached. She wanted a new beginning this year. It wasn’t that she was unhappy or that her life was miserable; the problem was that every day was the same. And it had been that way for too long. Now, foreign countries were calling her more than ever; the further away, the better. She had never been a person to go strange places. She liked her home, she didn’t wish to study abroad, she was fine with staying in her own little comfort zone. And that’s what she usually did. She never stepped out of her comfort zone except for the occasional book she bought without checking what it was about beforehand. But now, now she wanted to chase her dreams like her 12 year old self had wanted, she wanted to explore and have adventures. Something new. But she was sensible. She knew that it was stupid to give up her place at uni, something she’d worked hard to achieve, in the middle of her bachelor. She knew she didn’t have the money, nor the guts to tell her friends and family that she was going away for a year and she didn’t know where. So instead, she turned up the volume of her music, songs blasting through her speakers. It was the music her 12 year old self had listened to, the music that had never really left her although she left the rebellious period behind a long time ago. She listened once more to the songs about chasing dreams, about running away, about rebelling against the standard life, about rebellious teenagers, about leaving everything behind. Those were the songs the sensible girl danced to, when she was home alone and nobody could see her. Those were the songs she hummed to as she walked to class. They were also the songs that made her buy a practical backpack and save money. Just in case she ever was going to stick to that promise on her wall. She will run away to chase her dreams before she falls apart at the seams You’re just like your father
“You’re just like your father”. The first time she’d heard that, was from her mother, who said it lovingly as she came inside with her dad, nose bright red, hands cold and shivering. They had been outside, enjoying the snow on Christmas. Her mother had called the both of them in a long time ago, saying they were too cold and that they needed to warm up. Both of them had been too stubborn to admit it until her father had finally taken her inside, seeing that she was constantly shivering. She didn’t mind it though; she’d had fun and that was all that mattered to the three year old girl. The next time she heard it, was from her grandparents. She’d been staying with them for two days now because her parents were busy doing something, she wasn’t sure what. They didn’t have girl toys, only the lego her father used to play with. She didn’t mind; she set to work on a large house, and they took pictures of her building with her tongue out. “You’re just like your father” her grandmother told her, proceeding to call her parents to tell them all about it. “He was building houses too,” her grandfather informed her. All she did was smile and continue building. Her neighbours told her the same thing when she was staying there once. Her parents were busy again, she wasn’t sure with what. They were never home at the same time, and if they were, they would never cuddle with her like they used to. Instead, she could hear their voices coming from the hallway, and they never sounded happy again. Now she was staying with her neigbours and the six year old girl tried her best to ignore the sad looks they gave her. It was time to go to bed, but her hair was all messed up after spending a long day in the garden. Her neighbour was brushing it, telling her it was just like her father’s; black, curly and always messy. She smiled. She loved her father. Her mother told it her once more. She hadn’t seen her father for a few days; he always seemed to be away. Her mother wasn’t as happy anymore, and wouldn’t look at her drawings. She was stubborn, kept pushing. Her mother sighed, taking one quick look before looking at the bottle in front of her again. “You’re just like your father. You won’t take no for an answer”. It wasn’t as lovingly as the first time, but it wasn’t mad either, not yet. The next time she heard it was when she was fourteen. She hadn’t seen her father in years and she’d realized that he wasn’t the great father she thought him to be. She lived with her mother now, for seven years already. Her father had left them a long time ago, and according to her mother, he wouldn’t visit again. The last time she’d seen him, he told her she wasn’t his daughter anymore. That had hurt, but her mother explained everything that happened. He was an alcoholic, abusive and violent. He’d been cheating on her mother for a long time, even had a daughter with that women. She supposed that was his daughter now. She had always ignored the times when he wasn’t happy, but now she knew that had been the foolishness of a child. And perhaps, the will to see the good in everything. She’d grown up, made friends. Friends who she wanted to have fun with. So one evening, when her mom wasn’t home and had strictly told her to stay in, she broke that rule and went over to a friend. Her mom was never home before half past nine, so when she returned home at nine she thought she’d be fine. Except that her mom had been home early and was furious. After she shouted a long time, she sat down on a chair. “You’re just like your father.” The girl thought back to the first time she’d heard it from her mother. Then it had been a compliment. Now it was an insult. It was a thought that always came back to her whenever her mom used that phrase, and she used it often enough when she was angry. “You’re just like your father.” Once, it had been a good thing. Now it was the worst. Prompt: The weather outside
I put up my umbrella before I even dare go out that damn door. It´s a trusty blue umbrella, with little cartoon dogs all over it. It´s kept me alive for a few weeks now, and I´m hoping it will stay that way a bit longer. Of course, I have two extra umbrella´s in my bag, just in case. Wouldn´t want to catch some poisonous rain now would I. So, safely under my trusty umbrella, I step out into the rain. The worst thing is not knowing whether that rain could be your death, or if it is just ordinary rain. There are people who´ve taken to playing roulette in the rain. Stand outside, wait to see if you die, or not. Whoever survives longest, who is luckiest, gets the money of his dead friends. When I first heard of the roulette, I was angry, angry with those who made a game out of this terrible situation. Now I envy them, their ability to turn it into something funny, something worth their time. If I didn´t have someone to take care for, I would have joined them a long time ago. But I have a girlfriend left at home, a sick sister. I´m not sure what she has, exactly; she’d been feeling strange long before this begun, but by the time we realized that she was in serious trouble, all doctors were gone or too expensive. Money has lost all its value, and people have begun trading goods. It’s the only reason I’m out, in the almost continuous rain. I’m a scavenger, like the others who are out here right now. Roaming the streets for food and other valuables, saving so that I can bring my girlfriend to a doctor. We’ve lost everybody else. She’d fallen sick the day the first rains came, and I was with her. Her parents were out, and apparently, so were mine. The first rain was poisonous; everybody who had felt only a single droplet, was dead within a day. My brother had been out for football, and I assumed he had died, too. I hadn’t heard from him since, and I doubted he would have ran inside when the rains started. He’d always loved the rain. There might be some friends remaining in the city, but they are probably smart enough not to come outside. I wouldn’t either, but I had no choice. She was looking worse every day. She complained of headaches, and sometimes she just passed out like that. I had no idea what disease was torturing her. It could be cancer, for all I knew. Painkillers barely ever helped her, but I still handed them to her, every day, hoping to give her some relief. I’d walked into a street that seemed empty, no scavengers around. I vaguely remembered this street, but it was as if I’d passed it in another life. That other life could not be more than a few months back; I’d taken it to school every day. But I hadn’t been scavenging here yet, so it seemed new to me. I looked at everything with new eyes: if the windows were broken or doors were open, someone had beaten me to it. If the doors and windows were carefully shut; people were living inside, and I would leave them alone. I walked through one of those already emptied houses, checking for stuff on routine, but it had been ripped even from the smaller furniture. A dining table stood in the middle of a room, but there was only one chair left where at least six could have fit. There was a bookshelf, but all books had been taken; except the manual the government had sent us after the first rains. Everybody had it, but nobody used it; it had grown useless within days. Nobody could have expected this to happen, but it hurt, knowing that the government and all their families and friends were safe inside the White Palace. They had predicted this long ago, but never made it public; and so, only the elite of this damned country had survived the first rains. The elite, and the lucky. I left the house through the garden, and saw a shed in the garden. It looked unharmed. Could it be? I hurried towards it, and found the door closed, but not locked. I stepped inside, and I felt as if I’d stepped into heaven. It looked like an ordinary shed from the outside, but it was heaven to me. There were cans with food, there was chocolate, bottled drinks, medication, blankets, torches, batteries… Everything someone needed to survive. The best was the amount of umbrellas in the corner. This had obviously belonged to someone who’d known what was coming, the elite. Whoever had roamed the house had probably found so much goodies, that they didn’t think the shed could have any more; and everyone who had passed the house since had judged it as empty, like I had. I took my bag, and quickly took the chocolate, water and the medicine, along with a blanket. That was everything I needed to convince her the journey here would be worth it. Finally, I’d found hope. Maybe we would live this through, after all. Filled with joy I ran back, and almost forgot that I had to shield myself from the rain. I entered her house, where we’d been staying since the first day. Happily, I called her name as I shut the door beside me. There was no response. I ran towards the living room, where I’d left her. She might have passed out again, I thought, but she wasn’t there. There was a paper, lying on the couch where she’d been lying. I picked it up. My mind wasn’t realizing yet what my body had already realized, and so I found myself shaking but innocently reading her letter. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. But the pain is unbearable, I can hardly write the letter. It’s worse than you think, than I let you believe. It’s become worse the last few days, worse and worse. I can’t let you take care for someone who’s dying. I won’t let you risk your life for me. I’m sorry for doing it like this, I really am. I love you. Thank you, for everything you’ve done for me. Thank you, for liking me on that first day of school. I really really love you. The paper fell from my hand, and I ran outside. She was on the ground, on her side, and without realizing that drops fell on my bare skin, I shook her, trying to wake her up. There had to be a way! I shook her again and again, waiting for her to wake up. Finally I realized that I wasn’t holding her, but that I was holding her body. And with that realization came the burning feel of my skin, and I realized that it wasn’t me holding her body. It was my body holding hers. When two days later a scavenger found their home, he happily took the chocolate, the water and the medicine. He read the note, looked outside, and saw two bodies on the ground, one clutching another, but both dead. He shook his head and went on. There was no time to grief for his brother. |
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February 2017
About meWelcome to my blog! This is where I post my stories, occasionally accompanied by personal thoughts. I always post short stories, as I keep the longer ones for myself. My stories are often based on songs. I listen to music a lot (mostly pop punk / punk rock), and often get inspired by melodies, lyrics, or music videos. |