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|The Lady in the Attic (standard:drama, 1286 words)|
|Author: GothicGirl||Added: Sep 18 2000||Views/Reads: 3526/1455||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|A story about a girl and her family secret, hidden in the attic in the grandmothers house.|
Her name was Anne and she was my aunt. She was tall and dark like my mother in the pictures that I was showed of her. She was a swimmer in her youth. But, that was not the aunt I knew, to me she was always sick and feeble. She lived in my grandmotherís attic and never left the hard bed that she would lay on. She was blind and unable to walk, her legs limp as worms under the yellow sheets. She had two children, my cousins, Maria and Mary. Her husband had left her when she became ill, I was told by my grandmother years after her death. Her room in my grandmotherís house was in the attic. It was dark and musty. There were no windows, so no light or fresh air ever came in. The room was hot as a brick oven in the summer and cold as a ice block in the winter. The walls were made of wood that had lost itís glow and had nails coming through it like spears through impaled bodies. Once when I was little I climbed up to the attic and saw the nails coming through the walls, it gave me nightmares for months. The attic was a scary place that drained away any feelings of warmth, safety. The second time that I got the courage to go up to the attic I was about four years old. I made it all the way to the foot of the bed, then my grandmother picked me up and took me back down stairs. As she lifted me up I saw aunt Anneís legs lame and useless under the yellow sheet and the shadow of her head danced with the candle flame against the nail studded wall. That trip made the attic seem like an evil place to me. I never went up there voluntarily after that during Anneís life. My room was across the hall from the attic entrance. Every night I could hear her moaning coming from upstairs. I could also smell the jelly filled capsules and stale water. The putrid yellow smell drifted down the stairs to my room. The moaning gave me nightmares of torture and death. I often sat up in bed and rocked back and fourth to comfort myself after waking from a horrible nightmare. When I turned eight I got my first chore. My chore was to feed aunt Anne. The first time my grandmother led me upstairs to the attic with a tray of mush. She explained to me that I had to feed aunt Anne in the morning and at night. I was horrified the first time that I had to feed her alone. Her mouth would open and I would shove in the mush, she would swallow it in gulps as if she had not eaten for days. She would call out ďhello! hello!Ē in a weak voice when you walked up the attic stairs. I hated to give her water. I had to hold up her head and let her sip it form the cup beside the bed, the water smelled like the bottom of a pond. I kept this loathed chore till she died. Feeding aunt Anne was very difficult for me. She looked like a corpse that was rotting. She smelled like an infected wound that has been bandaged and turned gangrenous. When you spoke to her she never looked at you. Her smell and looks placed a powerful curse on the attic. Even to this day the still reminds me of her, it is her. The smell still lies in the walls, and when I feel loathsome about something it seems to come out of the walls, like an old man remembering a piece of a memory. Her visage is still visible if you look closely at the nail covered walls. On windy nights her voice still echoes in the attic. One of the first few times that I fed her she acknowledged that a person was there. I guess that she wanted to know who was feeding her. She reached up towards my face with her hands. Her bony, emaciated, long fingers touched my cheek. I drooped the tray of mush on to her and ran downstairs in terror. My grand mother gave me no sympathy for my fear; instead, she made me clean up the mess that I had made by dropping the tray. This was the beginning of my wishing for aunt Anneís death. As I got older I began to hate the chore of feeding my aunt almost as much as I hated my aunt. I blamed her for her sickness. I blamed her for all of the nights that I wanted to be with my friends, but had to come home and feed her. I hated her. I donít think that she knew that I hated her, I never showed any emotion when I fed her. When she got sicker the attic began to become worse too. The roof now leaked. The nails that impaled the wall rusted more and the smell got so strong that it choked you each time you entered the attic. They tried to improve the attic, to make it more like home for aunt Anne. They put in a window, but the window only cast dark shadows that looked like daggers against the nail, studded walls. My grandmother added a radio, but it was never played. They also put in an old writing desk that was wobbly and gave you splinters if you ran your hand across Click here to read the rest of this story (32 more lines)
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