Here's my off the head story. I couldn't stop
My name is Vivienne Adair and I am seventeen years. That's such an original way to begin a story, isn't it? But, what can you? I felt you needed know my name and age. It's easier connect with a person that way. There's a power in names and words that connects people. Not many people know that. People actually think that it's a secret, but it's quite obvious when you really think about it. Use that knowledge wisely. Now back to me...
I am an only child, although I never used to be. I had a who was younger than me, even though I thought we should have been twins. We were alike in so many uncanny ways. We didn't finish each others sentences, but each of uscould tell what the other wanted to say just by looking at the eyes. His name was Stephen. He was thirteen years old when he died and, despite what my parents thought, it wasn't my fault.
We reckless, Stephen and I, and we would spend our weekends exploring the woods near our home. I didn't have many friends preferring to solitude to chatter. I've never stuck to the norms, so I suppose you could call me a rebel. Dad certainly didn't shy away from using that name on me and I guess I just squeezed into the mould. See what i mean about there being power in names? Anyway, I was a loner, but Stephen had a little group of friends. He was your typical likeable kid, helpful and cheerful. But, despite the fact that we were totally different (and well occupied in Stephen's case) on the social scale, it was each other's company that we enjoyed the most.
On one of our explorations we discovered a cave deep within the woods. Any sensible person, upon looking at the dark and frightful, place, would have turned right around. Not us, though. We were reckless, as I said before, and rejoiced at the discovery of our own hideout just like the one in the mystery books. But, mystery books always had bad guys, didn't they?
Soon after the discovery, we set out to make our hideout more comfortable. We brought a fairly large wooden crate for a table, two smaller ones for chairs, an old lamp that Dad wasn't using, a bunch of snacks and a book of urban legends to read in the dark. We loved myths and legends and loved even more to be scared. How carefree we were, it makes me very sad to think about it. I don't cry, though. I'm so tired of crying.
We spent that afternoon taking turns reading stories out of the book. It was Stephen's turn and while he was in the middle of the story about Highway Sheila, very suddenly, he stopped and looked at me. There was so much in that look, but one sentence stood out from the rest. "We were wrong. We're not alone in here." As soon as I realised what he was saying, I felt it too. A heavy Presence, a red Presence. We had to leave, but it was too late. Another cliche. It was always too late in stories. We forget, however, that life is a story as well. Why should it be exempt from using a cliche now and then?
Forgetting everything, we both moved to stand. Stephen didn't even straighten his leg before cried out and fell backwards over his crate. I can't remember what it was like to see him like that, lying in the dust with his shirt and skin and flesh torn open. I know that I felt something then. I must have, but all I feel now is numbness. I remember trying to pick him up, but I never managed it. I was too weak and, besides that, it hurt him to move. I remember smoothing back his hair and telling him it would be okay (the liar that I was). I remember him trying to say something, but all that came out was sickening gurgles. His told me volumes, though. "Go away," they said,"Don't stay. I'm scared, but you have to go away. It's okay." And then there was nothing. Nothing but the murder weapon. I still have it with me to this day, this scythe here. It's strange how it practically robbed me of everything, yet now it's the only thing that I have to hold onto (literally). My only friend. When my parents found me, they thought that I had done it. I was holding the weapon, after all, but how could they think that I would murder the most precious person in my life? And, how dare they try to take me to the police to "answer for what I did." I didn't do anything, so what other choice did I have? I had to do it. Dad didn't scream. He was always a stern man. Mum tried to run, but she was not a fast runner. I did that to my own family even though I really wanted to do it to whatever killed my brother!
Atleast I buried them. I buried all of them in forest, beneath the willow try. It could weep for them forever, just as I had wept for them while I covered the holes. When I returned to the cave, the Presence had gone. I suspected it, though. There was no need for it to stay. I think that it was attracted to Stephen and my life and now that all of us were dead (I myself am not dead, but I think that a bit of me is) it had probably gone off to find someone other lurkers in the woods. People haven't been venturing into the woods lately and that's probably because they sense the heaviness. They're sensible people. I am not and I will wait here with book of myths for as long as it takes. And, when I meet the Presence again, I will return it's weapon. And then maybe I'll go to Hell. There is my story. make of it what you will, but do not make mockery of it. that will insult us both
i have had that happen to me many times...
