|Untitled as of yet... (standard:Creative non-fiction, 2930 words)|
|Author: Clare Borror||Added: Nov 08 2004||Views/Reads: 1602/960||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|This is the first part of a two or three part series. The first two remain unfinished, obviously, so please bear with me as I continue to update! :)|
I couldn't believe that I was half-dressed and still groggy from my rude awakening. After my friend Sophia had shaken me to consciousness, blathering about a vision of Draven Francois being back in town and residing in the old house, I hadn't even bothered to strap on my leather boots. Instead, I kissed her small forehead blearily, slipped my platinum-hilted rapier into the sheath I had sewn into my old over-coat, and traipsed barefoot out into the streets. The street lamps hurt my eyes as I hurried along the sidewalk beneath them, their glow only reaching out so far before the spaces of shadow between each spot of light reigned supreme, eventually giving way to those dim fingers of absurdly dull yellow. I thought of Sophia, the little girl who had been orphaned when her mother committed suicide by hanging herself. I had taken her into my own apartment, continued to school her at home; I was only nineteen at the time, her elder by a mere five years, but I loved her like I had loved my sisters and I worked three jobs to keep her healthy and fed, to provide her with what she needed and the things I had never understood to give to my sisters. If I died tonight, who would take care of her? Who would buy her favorite kind of billowing muslin skirts, the kind I had slipped into before leaving? Most importantly, who would love her as I did; I who had been orphaned by death as well and more hideously than any sane person could believe? Her small heart-shaped face flashed in my head, her long blonde hair in knots and tangles despite my incessant brushing it. Her small blue-green eyes stared coolly at me in her unnerving fashion and though I had been walking for almost ten minutes, I almost turned back around. I haven't thought this through, my mind warned me. I'm half asleep and I don't see the logic in doing this now. Enough, whispered a tiny voice of anger, it must be tonight or never. Abruptly, the sidewalk ended, greeted bumpily by the ill-laid asphalt. My bare feet slapped against its surface, loudly announcing my existence in the still quiet of midnight. I quickly veered to the right side of the street, and stopped in front of an ordinary-looking house. The darkness around it made the grey paint look almost black; the white trimming of the original Victorian scroll work glowed eerily in the dim, cloud-filtered moonlight; and I ascended the four concrete steps leading onto the property. As I stepped onto the lawn, my feet and ankles disappearing into the thick grass growing there, a soft light grew in the window of the second story balcony. I sighed heavily, knowing that as soon as I entered this house, my chances of getting back out of it would be slimmer than the miracle chance I had been given to be here in the first place. Heavy clouds shifted in the sky, illuminating the simple cement square of porch for a moment before collapsing again against the weak light of the half moon; but I did not need to see it to know it was there. I knew this house well, provided that the monster now dwelling in it hadn't moved the walls in the past four years. Shaking my head slightly, my elbow-length white hair slipped from its hastily fashioned pony-tail, spilled down over the brocade over-coat I had wrenched on in my hurry to get here. I ran a finger over the cold metal of hilt of my sword hidden against my back, and, satisfied that I might at least die fighting, I proceeded to make my way into the house that had so recently belonged to me and my family. The stairs were unlit, so my hands groped the wooden banister and the uneven stones on the walls. I counted the stairs under my breath, concentrating on whether it was twelve steps or thirteen. It had been such a long time since I had been on these steps; at the time, I had been running down them, screaming like a typical young girl of sixteen. It was on these stairs that the body parts of my parents and my little twin sisters had been strewn carelessly. I had come home from a particularly nasty day at school to find a dark-haired stranger carrying on in the living room about certain plants that could help my elderly father's arthritis, explaining that this or that herb could somehow defeat my little sisters' deafness. Click here to read the rest of this story (240 more lines)
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