Creative fun in
the palm of your hand.
Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2124470
Rated: E · Fiction · Fantasy · #2124470
A short scene from a story I'm writing.
I had just drifted off when something grabbed me by the throat and lifted me up. My legs flailed as I tried to kick at my attacker, but I saw nothing. Darkness covered everything, making it impossible to know where I was. A feeling of dread filled me as I tried to identify my attacker, who was nothing more than a formless blob. Everything surrounding me was pitch black, everything but me. I stood out like a sore thumb against the seemingly endless darkness that had overtaken what used to be my bedroom. I looked down to see that I was wearing a red hoodie and black jeans, Taylor’s clothes. Why was I dressed like her?
The grip tightened on my throat, making it impossible to breathe. My hair whipped around my face, almost violently, just before the hand around my throat loosened. I could feel myself falling. I reached out for something, anything to hold onto, but I felt my body being submerged in water instead. Panic filled me as I realized that I didn’t know how to swim. I moved my arms and legs, struggling to get to the surface, but I only seemed to stay frozen in place. My lungs burned as they filled with icy water. I’m dying, I thought just before my eyes popped open.
My hands shook and my body was damp with an uncomfortable layer of cold sweat. It took me a few minutes before my eyes adjusted enough for me to realize that the furniture and decorations in the small room belonged to me. My heart was still hammering in my chest as I pushed myself into a sitting position. I heard water dripping onto my wooden floorboards, and somehow I knew it was raining. The rain grew harder, beating against the outside of my apartment as if to confirm my thoughts. Maybe I had just dreamed about water because of the rain, but it felt so real. Suddenly, a figure appeared near the foot of my bed, causing me to jump.
“Taylor?” I asked when I finally recognized her. Her clothes were filthy and torn, they clung limply to her body. Her normally curly dark locks were matted to her head like a wet mop. Water dripped from her body and onto the floor, forming a large puddle beneath her. She was crying, something I had never seen a ghost do. Her tears were black instead of clear, making her look like she had mascara all over her face. “Taylor, are you okay? I asked.
© Copyright 2017 JMcCulloch (jmcculloch at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
Writing.Com, its affiliates and syndicates have been granted non-exclusive rights to display this work.
Log in to Leave Feedback
Not a Member?
Signup right now, for free!
All accounts include:
*Bullet* FREE Email @Writing.Com!
*Bullet* FREE Portfolio Services!
Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2124470