Day 6: Make a list of 5 things you’re afraid of happening to you. Then write a story in which one of them happens to your character.
There’s this moment of insanity, when you know you’re crossing a line.
“Lily, sweetie, I’m just a little tired ok? Go play over there for a bit.” She said waving her hand at the corner of the room filled with coloured boxes, toy cars, white sheets of paper and crayons. “You can draw something if you want.” Lily looked back at her with curiosity. She seemed a little paler than usual. “Is everything ok, mom? Why do you look so white?” Her mom smiled at her. “Don’t worry about it honey, I’ll be fine. Why don’t you draw me a nice picture?” Lily grabbed her mom’s hands and leaned forward to look at her more closely. “Will you feel better if I do?” Her mother gave her a weak grin. “If it’s from you, I’m sure I’ll feel a lot better.” Lily stared intensely into her mom’s eyes as if she was trying to memorize something. It took a few seconds before she suddenly jumped up and ran across the room to get her crayons.
“Mom!” She yelled as if the other side of the room was the other side of the city. The woman rubbed the side of her head with a pained look on her face. “Yeah..?” It was all she felt she was able to get out of her mouth. “I’m going to make you the best picture ever!” The woman smiled weakly again. “That’s nice, sweetie.” A few seconds of silence went by, but the more time, the more her head felt like exploding. She felt herself falling away into a blur, but she desperately tried to stop herself. Something told her that she should fight this feeling, but she didn’t know what was keeping her from what felt like a good nap coming up.
“Mom!” Lily yelled again after a few minutes. “How do you spell your name again?”
Lily returned to her paper with unwavering concentration. Quinn could see her lips move to form the sounds of each letter. Somehow it made her feel happy to see her daughter like this. It made her relax a bit and for a moment she wanted to let it all out. Slowly she dipped into the blurry feeling she had before. Slowly she felt a blackish shadow reaching her, but it felt… easy. Comfortable.
Lily moved her head back a bit to observe her piece of art. Her mom, her dad and herself holding hands. The little red lines that formed their lips cut across their faces in a casual way. The sun was shining. They looked happy together. At the top of the paper she had written in big letters ‘FROM LILY TO QUINN’. She smiled at her achievement and looked up at her mom.
She looked up at her mom suddenly standing next to her. She looked up at her mom that wore the same smile as in her drawing… a red stripe cut unnaturally across her face. Her eyes as large as she had drawn them. She felt cold air surrounding her for just a moment. Her smile faded. “Are you okay mommy? I made this for you.” She said pointing at her drawing. Tears formed in her eyes as she felt cold hands reach for her. She took a step back to get away from the cold, but she felt trapped. For a moment her breath stopped, her heart stopped and everything stopped. Everything was now in front of her. Her mom’s soft, gentle hands like claws around her wrists. Her mom’s warm smiles like souls calling for help. Frozen in her steps she looked at her mom’s hand reaching for her throat…
I can feel myself moving. I can see myself moving. I’m doing it myself… So why can’t I stop. Stop it! Not her, no please. I love her. Why isn’t this working? Why is this so hard? I just want to let go. I don’t want this anymore. I don’t want control, I don’t want it. Why can’t I stop? I’m tired.
He observed the woman in front of him carefully. His eyes, worn down by experience, laughter and many looks of sympathy were strictly focused on her. He looked at the dark lines under her grey blue eyes. He looked at her lips that were pursed in a tight line. He looked at the crooked way she was sitting on her chair and at the black unwashed hairs hanging warily over her face. Of all the things he saw, behind all the things that could make her stunning if well taken care of, he saw only things that evoked repulsion. In her eyes he saw the one thing he had never seen before. Her eyes weren’t filled with tears, exhaustion or fear. They were filled with death. Never had he seen such emptiness and misery reflect in the mirrors to the soul. A shiver ran down his spine and he wondered. He has never been religious or spiritual in any way. He did not believe in anything but that which he could see, but for the first time in his life he could see the absence of that what was beyond understanding. Her soul.
As they sat in silence the only sound was his pencil scratching nervously across the notebook in his hands. The silence lingered between them, but she did not make any attempt to break it. She had not spoken, moved or shown any sign of recognizing his or even her own existence.
“What is your name?”
No response. For days on end he had shared that room with her, but she had yet to speak a word. Still he kept trying. Was it his own sense of pride, his curiosity or a simple need to help, he had not considered giving up on her. It was his job, and he was good at it. He trusted in himself.
He leaned back and looked at her in a more casual manner and politely smiled at her.
“I look forward to the day when we can have a conversation over some tea.” He chuckled. She didn’t budge. He thought back to nearly a week ago, to the report that had lain on his desk when he entered his office. He had read it in a single breath of perplexity. A woman and her daughter, her husband was away from work. In the picture she had looked charming and happy. None of them had a medical history, a record or anything unusual whatsoever. They’d lived a happy peaceful life. He looked at the woman again and tried to find a resemblance between her and the picture that was taken of her only a month back. He had looked at the picture of her daughter, before and after the incident. She had been a beautiful child of around 8 years old with long black hair and a light brown complexion. Pictures of a bruised child, barely alive and broken in spirit flashed in front of his eyes as he rubbed along the temple of his head. He thought of his own daughter who had long passed that age and he felt painfully grateful. He looked over at the woman again and saw her soulless form.
“How much do you remember?” He asked no one in particular, not expecting any response. Within a moment he felt the icy fingers of death reach over to his neck and clamping around his throat. Her empty grey blue eyes were staring straight into his and even though she had not moved anything but her face he felt her aura near him as if it was attempting to draw him into hell.
“Everything.” She said with an icy, creaking voice.
So, here’s a fun fact. I figured that when I have inspiration to write something, it’s crucial for me not to stop. When I stop, it’s gone and it’ll never come back. I hate my brain sometimes. So I’m basically stuck in the stories’ world, until I’m finished with it. Tell you what; it’s not that much fun being stuck in a story filled with your greatest fears… I genuinely got small panick attacks when I imagined being Quinn. So here’s my list 🙂
- Losing complete control over myself and do stuff that goes against me (like insanity)
- Hurting/losing the people I love more than anything
- Getting hurt by the people I love more than anything
- Trypophobia… fear of holes (don’t google it.)
- Ginormous freaking hand or bigger sized freaking spiders that like partying in your mosquito net when you want to sleep.