Post by Idazle on Apr 5, 2014 19:47:25 GMT -5
There isn’t much left here. I suppose there once was. Before me, I can see a house, its residents long gone. The off white paint is peeling away from the side of the building, revealing a wooden structure underneath smelling faintly of pine. There are only two windows on this part of the house, both with a bare wooden cross holding the few shards of glass together. It is shattered, and the door is boarded shut with two boards.
A loud crack sounds from behind me, and I leap forward. I grab at the boards, prying them away as I slip the door open. I crawl inside the musty house, turning to gaze out the window.
A man steps onto the road where I had just been standing, sunlight glinting off his glasses and obscuring his eyes from sight. A top hat is pressed firmly over his slick black hair. He is wearing a suit that one day may have looked nice but is now just a tattered mass of black fabric. I crawl over to the other window to ge a better look at him. He stops walking and removes his glasses revealing sharp black eyes in which I can sense nothing but pain. He turns and looks at the house in which I’m hiding. He lets out a sigh and turns away. There is something in this place that he is looking for, of what I am not certain. After placing his glasses back on his crooked nose above a five o’clock shadow covered frown, he continues on his way down the street, turning to look at the other houses left in the same state of disrepair. He shakes his head slowly as he walks on. I wish I knew what he is searching for.
From the direction the man had come from walked a woman. She is pale and has whispy blond hair pulled back into a bun. She is wearing a tattered dress of pink floral print. Her black shoes fall softly on the road.
The man turns around and looks at the woman, lifting his glasses. Their black eyes interlock and the man forces a smile. The woman returns it and continues to slowly approach the man. No words pass between them, but it doesn’t seem as though they desire to speak. The man stops beside a green bush only a few paces away. He frowns and rubs his eyes. What am I being witness to?
“Catherine…”” the man whispers.
“How long has it been?” Cather asks, coming to a halt.
“Too long. What has happened?” he inquires, gesturing toward the town. “I left… to get… I cannot even remember. It has been so long.”
“Indeed,” she agrees. “You should have come back sooner.”
“But why?” he replies.
“Everyone missed you. I missed you,” she whispers.
The man’s view becomes downcast. I can sense grief and pain coming from him, a sense of guilt. “I know…” He turns as if to go but stops. “This one,” he said, patting his hand on the doorframe of the house across from me. There are pillars of wood in front of it, much like would be used to hold up a porch.
“What about it, Johnathan?” she prods.
“This was the one.” He goes to turn the knob, but it is no longer there. He runs one leathery tough hand down the door, allowing it to raise and fall freely over the warped wood, feeling every rusted nail holding the door shut. “I owned this house. I was bringing something back…” He shakes his head.
“How long?” Catherine asks again.
“I don’t know how long!” Johnathan cries, pounding his fist against the door. It creaks and shudders under the sudden force but does not give way. “But I owned this house.”
“Right across the street,” Catherine sighs, turning to point at the house I am now hiding within.
“Are you sure it was that one?” Johnathan asks, scratching his chin.
“Of course. It was the house I grew up in. The house I lived in…the one in which I died,” she says, stating the last sentence at a nearly inaudible volume.
“You are not dead,” he laughs, closing a few more paces of the gap between them.
“But I did,” she sighs, turning away. She hugs her frail arms across her chest. “I died in there.”
“You always did tell tall tales, Catherine,” Johnathan laughs. “The talk of the town. Who needs a story when you could have Catherine?”
She smiles, though only half of her mouth turns upward. “Oh. Of course. You’ve caught me,” she laughs, rubbing her arms up and down.
Silence falls over them again. Catherine’s eyes shimmer, tears beginning to form. Johnathan turns back to the door and begins to try and pry open the door, but no matter what he tries to do, the door won’t budge. He falls to his knees, almost praying that the door will open up to him, but he has no success. He turns around, sitting with his back leaning against the door. Catherine still won’t look at him. There is something on her mind, something she isn’t saying to him.
Another person wanders up the path, a small child. He is wearing suspenders, but one of the elastic straps broke free from the clasp and trails behind him like a tail. His filthy white shirt is haphazardly tucked into the waistband of his black pants, a size too large for him to fit into. The cuffs are caked with mud as are his bare feet. He hugs a tattered bear to his chest with one and and holds the thumb of his other in his mouth.
“Papa?” he cries out from time to time as he makes his way down the road. He is lost, his blue eyes glimmering with fear from beneath waves of dirty blond hair (which was dirty in both meanings of the word). “Papa?”
Johnathan glances up and jumps to his feet. I notice his toe sticking out of his right shoe. These poor people… His glasses fall to the ground as he runs toward the child.
“Papa!” he cries, leaping into Johnathan’s outstretched arms.
“My boy, my boy… where have you been?” he asks over and over again. The fear leaves the boy’s eyes completely while a bit remains within his father’s eyes. The boy was lost, but now he is home.
“I dunno, Papa… I dunno…” He glances over his father’s shoulder, catches one glimpse of Catherine, and he begins to whimper.
“What is it, boy?” he asks, turning around.
‘I really died…” she whispers to them. The door swings open, revealing a body similar to the duo staring at it. “And so did you.”
A loud crack sounds from behind me, and I leap forward. I grab at the boards, prying them away as I slip the door open. I crawl inside the musty house, turning to gaze out the window.
A man steps onto the road where I had just been standing, sunlight glinting off his glasses and obscuring his eyes from sight. A top hat is pressed firmly over his slick black hair. He is wearing a suit that one day may have looked nice but is now just a tattered mass of black fabric. I crawl over to the other window to ge a better look at him. He stops walking and removes his glasses revealing sharp black eyes in which I can sense nothing but pain. He turns and looks at the house in which I’m hiding. He lets out a sigh and turns away. There is something in this place that he is looking for, of what I am not certain. After placing his glasses back on his crooked nose above a five o’clock shadow covered frown, he continues on his way down the street, turning to look at the other houses left in the same state of disrepair. He shakes his head slowly as he walks on. I wish I knew what he is searching for.
From the direction the man had come from walked a woman. She is pale and has whispy blond hair pulled back into a bun. She is wearing a tattered dress of pink floral print. Her black shoes fall softly on the road.
The man turns around and looks at the woman, lifting his glasses. Their black eyes interlock and the man forces a smile. The woman returns it and continues to slowly approach the man. No words pass between them, but it doesn’t seem as though they desire to speak. The man stops beside a green bush only a few paces away. He frowns and rubs his eyes. What am I being witness to?
“Catherine…”” the man whispers.
“How long has it been?” Cather asks, coming to a halt.
“Too long. What has happened?” he inquires, gesturing toward the town. “I left… to get… I cannot even remember. It has been so long.”
“Indeed,” she agrees. “You should have come back sooner.”
“But why?” he replies.
“Everyone missed you. I missed you,” she whispers.
The man’s view becomes downcast. I can sense grief and pain coming from him, a sense of guilt. “I know…” He turns as if to go but stops. “This one,” he said, patting his hand on the doorframe of the house across from me. There are pillars of wood in front of it, much like would be used to hold up a porch.
“What about it, Johnathan?” she prods.
“This was the one.” He goes to turn the knob, but it is no longer there. He runs one leathery tough hand down the door, allowing it to raise and fall freely over the warped wood, feeling every rusted nail holding the door shut. “I owned this house. I was bringing something back…” He shakes his head.
“How long?” Catherine asks again.
“I don’t know how long!” Johnathan cries, pounding his fist against the door. It creaks and shudders under the sudden force but does not give way. “But I owned this house.”
“Right across the street,” Catherine sighs, turning to point at the house I am now hiding within.
“Are you sure it was that one?” Johnathan asks, scratching his chin.
“Of course. It was the house I grew up in. The house I lived in…the one in which I died,” she says, stating the last sentence at a nearly inaudible volume.
“You are not dead,” he laughs, closing a few more paces of the gap between them.
“But I did,” she sighs, turning away. She hugs her frail arms across her chest. “I died in there.”
“You always did tell tall tales, Catherine,” Johnathan laughs. “The talk of the town. Who needs a story when you could have Catherine?”
She smiles, though only half of her mouth turns upward. “Oh. Of course. You’ve caught me,” she laughs, rubbing her arms up and down.
Silence falls over them again. Catherine’s eyes shimmer, tears beginning to form. Johnathan turns back to the door and begins to try and pry open the door, but no matter what he tries to do, the door won’t budge. He falls to his knees, almost praying that the door will open up to him, but he has no success. He turns around, sitting with his back leaning against the door. Catherine still won’t look at him. There is something on her mind, something she isn’t saying to him.
Another person wanders up the path, a small child. He is wearing suspenders, but one of the elastic straps broke free from the clasp and trails behind him like a tail. His filthy white shirt is haphazardly tucked into the waistband of his black pants, a size too large for him to fit into. The cuffs are caked with mud as are his bare feet. He hugs a tattered bear to his chest with one and and holds the thumb of his other in his mouth.
“Papa?” he cries out from time to time as he makes his way down the road. He is lost, his blue eyes glimmering with fear from beneath waves of dirty blond hair (which was dirty in both meanings of the word). “Papa?”
Johnathan glances up and jumps to his feet. I notice his toe sticking out of his right shoe. These poor people… His glasses fall to the ground as he runs toward the child.
“Papa!” he cries, leaping into Johnathan’s outstretched arms.
“My boy, my boy… where have you been?” he asks over and over again. The fear leaves the boy’s eyes completely while a bit remains within his father’s eyes. The boy was lost, but now he is home.
“I dunno, Papa… I dunno…” He glances over his father’s shoulder, catches one glimpse of Catherine, and he begins to whimper.
“What is it, boy?” he asks, turning around.
‘I really died…” she whispers to them. The door swings open, revealing a body similar to the duo staring at it. “And so did you.”
?
and that kills me