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by Lyndon
Rated: 13+ · Short Story · Thriller/Suspense · #1755184
I don't know what inspired me to write this, I wrote it 2 months ago.
Have you ever lost someone? Someone, that you maybe even loved? Maybe, someone that you loved to hate; you loved seeing them suffer. I'm sure everyone has.
Maybe.
My breath smells. It smells so bad that I can taste it. It tastes of blood even. It tastes great, even if it smells bad, if that makes any sense. As I look down my stretched arm, the scars, a story to each. I don't know. There is one that stands out. It bleeds still, I cut it to feel what I used to. Happiness, sadness, compassion, love, I need it to feel. Reminds me of what happened, how I got this scar. Perhaps, it is my favorite disfigurement.
Then it comes, the memories. What I try to hold on to the most. It keeps me sane. When they are lost, the last thing holding together myself together will be gone along with it.
I exhale. It must be cold. The air got fogged up.
My story? What is it? I forget. I hold on to the few memories I have. I think it is what keeps me alive. It must, I am here. I can share, the few I have, however. The one, the scar story? Yes, that would be an appropriate start.
The blood from the scar is trickling down my arm, taking along any of the dirt on my arm. It runs thin, pale. Hardly red. Almost clear, like water. Water.
I wake up. What am I doing? Talking to myself? This dreams are beginning to sicken me, they are recurring nonsense. The alarm clock reads 7:15. Is it the morning or night? Must be night, the vehicles are here.
My eyes catch a glimpse of something in the mirror. The cheap one by my closest. There's blood all over my chest and pajamas?
What the hell?
The source seems to be a gash in my forearm, leading to my hands, even a part of my index finger is missing. What did I do? I start shaking. The room starts spinning. I need water. The stairs are kind to the kitchen, soft under my feet. Seems kinda wet, though. Too dark to see what it is though.
The kitchen is cold, there's a smell in the air. I switch on the light. My eyes widen, but I'm not even surprised.
My brother lies dead, under the table.
A sense of dejavu, this has happened before? The wall is covered in words, spelt with blood;
You did it
Well, this is weird. Both of my parents were killed about three days ago, me and my brother were together in my bed hiding. I don't know how, this, whatever, beast, hell, I don't know, got my brother and not I. the thing that was on the wall when my parents were killed was similar, though.
You did it
I did it. It would be best to see what is going on, but I feel at peace. I feel at peace covered in the blood of my brother, my mother, and my father.
© Copyright 2011 Lyndon (jesus_hair at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1755184-10-Years