Never “Just a Story”

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When I started this blog, I knew I wanted to talk about my feelings and share a part of my life online, but I also knew that I wanted to post some of the stories or pieces I’ve written. Often, the pieces I’ll be sharing will be ones that I wrote for school, but that doesn’t mean they don’t mean a lot to me. Many people think that the stories they write are “just stories”, and have little to do with them, but I have recently begun to understand that a story tells us a lot about the author, regardless of how fictitious it is. The story I am about to share with you is one I wrote for English class, and with a word limit, I wasn’t really able to end it the way I wanted to, but I am quite proud of it. It is not based on a true story, but when I was given the assignment, I knew I wanted to write from the perspective of an unhappy or suicidal girl, and in first person point of view. I wrote this about the time when I first started toying with the idea of starting a blog to deal with the thoughts I couldn’t quite comprehend. So without any more dawdle, here it is.

 

I didn’t know what death felt like until I died. Shadows followed me. Until they didn’t. Those last few days, I hid under my covers, trying to escape not the rays of sunlight, but the lurking shadows. My thoughts caved in, and I bought a one-way ticket for departure. It wasn’t always like this. But that was how it ended.

Those who only knew me before the summer I turned ten would describe me as an extrovert. I’m not really one for labels, but I really was the concrete image of an extrovert. I was a social butterfly. My fondest memories are of when my mother had tea parties, where she seemed to be no different from all the other mums blowing into their petty china teacups.

But you see, my mother isn’t like all the others. I once asked her to tell me a bedtime story. I never asked for one again. She came into my bedroom, her auburn hair in a disheveled bun, her lab coat stained and fringed. Tucked into my bed, I closed my eyes and listened to her hushed voice as she told me the story of her first and last autopsy. The images of the sticky damp blood, the merciless scalpel, and shattered skull are forever ingrained in my head. From that night onwards, I swore to myself never to follow my mother’s footsteps.

With my mother working at home, I was never allowed into her room. “My room is my lab. No different from a study.” she reminded me whenever she suspected my curiosity levels were rising. One morning during the summer I turned ten, I walked across the room I passed every day, but instead found the door slightly open, urging me to take a look inside. My fingers closed around the rusty knob, and from that moment on and the few weeks that followed, I discovered more of mother’s secrets than I ever would have wished for.

Most people would describe their mother’s room smelling of flowers, her perfume, or her favourite candle. My mother’s room had smelt of disinfectant and latex gloves. It wasn’t long before my mother’s sharp fingernails pinched the back of my t-shirt and hauled me out of the room, but I distinctly remember the row of colourless perfume bottles that sat on the windowsill, and the dark crimson velvet curtains drawn behind it. The velvet curtains seemed to have lost its silkiness, heavily slumped from the curtain rail, awaiting the day they would be draped, finally letting the warm glow of the sun into the dark suffocating room. The light behind the ajar door shone on the glass bottles as they glistened icily. The shadows swayed, mirroring the liquid inside. Although I have long since given up on finding an explanation for the inexplicable liquid I came across in my mother’s room that night, I am here to tell my story, one last time.

Long story short, my life was an experiment. My mother wasn’t a mother. She valued her life’s work more than anything a child could ever bring her. When I stepped onto the train track and watched the driver go pale as my eyes locked with his, I whispered a faint apology and assured myself that it was the only way to win. I have no regrets. With me gone, the shadows have nowhere to follow me. I have beaten my mother’s game. Why live to tell a story when you can tell it from start to end.

 

Right, so that’s it, I really hope you liked it. Please please comment below and give me feedback because it would be greatly appreciated. Thank you!

Sending my love 🙂

xx

 

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2 thoughts on “Never “Just a Story”

  1. Wow! I really loved that short story, if it was It novel I would definitely read it. Also (if you were to continue the story) I would love to know what happens on the mothers point of view (I know this was a assignment but if it were a book series type of thing.) I LOVED it!!! ♥️♥️

    Liked by 1 person

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