A Story Full of Questions
I have been plagued with a Windows phone. It works when it wants to and when it does work, it is great. When it doesn’t work, it found itself being thrown. I have anger management issues. So I traded that P.O.S in for a phone I have had since it made its debut and have returned to when my other phones start lacking. The iPhone. Call me names or start calling me a conformist if you would like, but I am rarely ever near my computer and when I am, I have to put together a presentation or wrote a research paper. My phone is for fun things. I got my iPhone and signed into my account. To my amazement, all of my old apps I love start downloading themselves to the phone. Awesome. I open the note app and expect it to be empty. I was wrong. It is full of old stories, ideas, and some quotes. Oh My God! I could die. But if I did, I wouldn’t be able to let you read something I wrote around three in the morning a few years ago. I edited the story because when you write at three in the morning and read it when you are coherent, it tends to not make much sense. So here you are. I give you a story for your Sunday. Here, in the land of mountains, it is dreary and cold. A perfect day to read. Enjoy and Happy Sunday.
I run through the thick woods, trying to be careful of every step. Hoping I don’t break my ankle or something worse that will render me useless. The thick brush seems to encase itself around me and I struggle to break my self free of its tight clutches. I break a branch that nearly smacks me in the face and my eyes catch what I have been searching for. Its peeling paint and sagging roof remind me of every stereotypical idea my thoughts can produce about killers. The old, decomposing house in an area thick with trees, hidden from view. Although the windows looked incased with mud, I did my best to become like the house – hidden. If anyone was inside, I didn’t want to bother them. Not just yet. The sun was setting and the fading light offered the right amount of camouflage . I came to what looked like a bathroom window. It was nested at eye level and to my amazement, was cracked open. I wondered if it was a trap, but erased the thought from my head. How could they know anything. Everyone I loved was dead. Unless they tortured them. If that was the case, I knew to be extra careful. I put my face to the glass. I wanted a better look inside. I took the sleeve from my coat and scraped a small section of mud and filth from the window. I could barely make out the lining of a shower and toilet. I surveyed the window for wires or any thing suspicious. Satisfied I wouldn’t die instantly or become impaled, I slowly opened the window. It made small creaking sounds and I cringed every time. I pleaded for no one to be inside. I finally opened the window and started to squeeze in, feet first. The floor felt slimy and it took all my strength to hang onto the window sill and keep my balance. In seconds I would find out what was under my feet and I wasn’t ready. I imagined a layer of film from an once overflowing toilet. Or just grime from a house in ruins. I must have been seduced by the crisp night air, for as soon as my entire body entered the bathroom, my nostrils filled with the smell of bile. I almost lost what was left in my stomach. But another stench crept in and it took a while for the smell to register. I have smelt it before. My mother smelled the same way before she died. I know because I held her in my arms. It was all I could do to keep her alive, but the wound was so deep. I then knew what it was. Blood. I thought of how my mother knew exactly where to cut. To make a mark in her skin that no one could heal. When I found her she was covered and lying in a pool of this familiar stench. I tried to stop the bleeding, but it was too late. The bathroom was suddenly my old home and I could see my mother curled up on the floor half awake, half dead. I was sad and deeply confused. When she died I only felt anger. I see her on the floor and I want to run to her. A loud sound from another room breaks my trance. I quickly hide in the only safe place – the shower. It’s an old tub that rest on for post in the shape of talons. A single rod from the floor hold a circle that hangs above the tub. A moldy plastic sheet hangs from rust covered hooks. I pull the sheet around me and wait patiently; silently. Trying to hold my breath. My heart is pounding and I swear it sounds like drums. The footsteps grow louder and I prayed they would pass the bathroom door. Please don’t have to pee. Please. The footsteps stop in front of the door. A voice from another room yells at the person in the hallway. I can’t make out the words, but it causes the person to grunt in a disaproving tone. The person starts to open the bathroom door and I am sure that I will be seen. I can die just as my mother did – on a bathroom floor. Except no one will be there to comfort me and I will not have taken my own life, just brutally murdered in a bathroom. The door pushes open and I cover my mouth hoping my silent breath will stop my noisy heart. The voice from the other room yells again. The bathroom door shuts slightly and the person grunts loudly and walks down the hall. This is my chance. I step out of the shower and slowly make my way out of the bathroom. Away from my death. I can feel my mothers clutches and I stall. Half of my body in the hallway and half in the bathroom. I search the hallway for the next available hiding spot and shake my leg. “not today, mother”. This momentary fight for life gives me the courage to doge into an adjacent room. I hide in the closet and find myself seated holding my knees on the floor. I decide to wait until the house is empty. Until then I devise a new plan. I’ll find my answers in the morning.