CaterpilAli
The Ghost in your Closet
So this is the beginning of a story i started writing. Its not my usual style of writing, so i wanted your opinion. I'll update it as I write more but this is it for now.
You know how some days you can feel as high as a kite? And then others you feel like someone just kicked your arse off a bridge the size of Mount Everest and you’re constantly falling? Yeah, I’m having one of those. Only this time, I felt like I was on top of four of the damned things, stacked one on top of the other so that you can’t even see the top of the second one. I can’t remember when I felt this low. I feel like if I were to open my mouth to even say a single word I might burst into tears.
I haven’t spoken a word since the day of the accident, the day that cost my parent’s lives. My lip trembles even at the thought of it. I don’t want to remember. If I remember, I’ll crumble. It’s taken me this long to get myself back together, but for some reason, no matter how hard I try, no words ever escape my lips. My fist clench as I stare at the dull plastic-y fibres of the polyester carpet, knuckles going white with the force. I don’t care how much it hurts to feel the edges of my nails press against my palms, threatening to break the skin. I almost want them to, to see the scarlet droplets add some kind of colour to that dull grey rug, to see something other than the boring lifeless tones of this plain room. There’s nothing much of interest in here, just a few wooden bookshelves drilled into the wall, a metal bed frame with a thin mattress covered in a scratchy grey blanket and a limp pillow, a washed out chest of draws and curtains that I suspect might have once been a cheery yellow but have been bleached in the sun until they look like the weak colour of urine. The only real thing of interest is the painting that hangs above the single plank of wood that serves as the bookshelf.
The painting itself is by some unknown artist. The signature is a black scrawl of illegible ink, half smudged with paint as if the image was still wet when he/she/it had signed it. It’s not all that interesting really, it’s of some strange market place. Kids run around after animals, chickens duck and weave between legs, cats slink across rooftops as the market criers declare their wares. Of course, none of this actually moves. This is just what I see in it. Personally, I don’t understand what it is about this painting that makes me like it so much, but I do. When I was little and visiting my cousins I used to imagine the market place coming to life before I fell asleep. I know now that this is utter nonsense, but there’s still the thrill of the memory. I used to dream of it too, I could hear the sounds, smell the aromas of the people, the wares, and the docks that you could barely make out at the edge of the painting. I could see the children as they chased that poor dog around the square, hear their laughter as it rang out. It was all so vivid to me. Now as I look at it, all I feel is a hollow sense of despair.
‘Abigail, lunch is ready.’ My aunt’s voice breaks my melancholy thoughts as I look up with a bored glance towards the door where she stands, her dark hair pinned back neatly, pale blue sundress covered with a white apron. A single strand of pearls is strung around her neck. She looks as bland and washed out as this room. Everything is tones of grey to me. Even though she wears red lipstick, and has blush on, she just manages to look more drawn, her lips more pursed. I get this mental image of her among those ugly Victorian dolls. That’s what she looks like with that makeup. She would be quite pretty if she let her hair out, used less vibrant tones, but she’s very much an old suburban housewife. I wonder if my uncle makes her wear those ridiculous clothes. It’s very much the typical 60’s housewife, not at all the 21st century. She clears her throat and I nod, standing slowly, not speaking. Seeing this, she turns away and walks down the stairs into the kitchen where the scent of freshly baked bread and an assortment of aromas reach us, me particularly as I follow and my stomach rumbles. I haven’t eaten since last night. I refused breakfast, feeling sick.
I think I ought to take this moment to tell you now that my aunt and uncle are slightly eccentric. Well no, not that. They’re more rather… Living in the 60’s. That’s when their house was built and that’s how they’ve stayed. My cousins managed to escape that particular ailment.. Just.
You know how some days you can feel as high as a kite? And then others you feel like someone just kicked your arse off a bridge the size of Mount Everest and you’re constantly falling? Yeah, I’m having one of those. Only this time, I felt like I was on top of four of the damned things, stacked one on top of the other so that you can’t even see the top of the second one. I can’t remember when I felt this low. I feel like if I were to open my mouth to even say a single word I might burst into tears.
I haven’t spoken a word since the day of the accident, the day that cost my parent’s lives. My lip trembles even at the thought of it. I don’t want to remember. If I remember, I’ll crumble. It’s taken me this long to get myself back together, but for some reason, no matter how hard I try, no words ever escape my lips. My fist clench as I stare at the dull plastic-y fibres of the polyester carpet, knuckles going white with the force. I don’t care how much it hurts to feel the edges of my nails press against my palms, threatening to break the skin. I almost want them to, to see the scarlet droplets add some kind of colour to that dull grey rug, to see something other than the boring lifeless tones of this plain room. There’s nothing much of interest in here, just a few wooden bookshelves drilled into the wall, a metal bed frame with a thin mattress covered in a scratchy grey blanket and a limp pillow, a washed out chest of draws and curtains that I suspect might have once been a cheery yellow but have been bleached in the sun until they look like the weak colour of urine. The only real thing of interest is the painting that hangs above the single plank of wood that serves as the bookshelf.
The painting itself is by some unknown artist. The signature is a black scrawl of illegible ink, half smudged with paint as if the image was still wet when he/she/it had signed it. It’s not all that interesting really, it’s of some strange market place. Kids run around after animals, chickens duck and weave between legs, cats slink across rooftops as the market criers declare their wares. Of course, none of this actually moves. This is just what I see in it. Personally, I don’t understand what it is about this painting that makes me like it so much, but I do. When I was little and visiting my cousins I used to imagine the market place coming to life before I fell asleep. I know now that this is utter nonsense, but there’s still the thrill of the memory. I used to dream of it too, I could hear the sounds, smell the aromas of the people, the wares, and the docks that you could barely make out at the edge of the painting. I could see the children as they chased that poor dog around the square, hear their laughter as it rang out. It was all so vivid to me. Now as I look at it, all I feel is a hollow sense of despair.
‘Abigail, lunch is ready.’ My aunt’s voice breaks my melancholy thoughts as I look up with a bored glance towards the door where she stands, her dark hair pinned back neatly, pale blue sundress covered with a white apron. A single strand of pearls is strung around her neck. She looks as bland and washed out as this room. Everything is tones of grey to me. Even though she wears red lipstick, and has blush on, she just manages to look more drawn, her lips more pursed. I get this mental image of her among those ugly Victorian dolls. That’s what she looks like with that makeup. She would be quite pretty if she let her hair out, used less vibrant tones, but she’s very much an old suburban housewife. I wonder if my uncle makes her wear those ridiculous clothes. It’s very much the typical 60’s housewife, not at all the 21st century. She clears her throat and I nod, standing slowly, not speaking. Seeing this, she turns away and walks down the stairs into the kitchen where the scent of freshly baked bread and an assortment of aromas reach us, me particularly as I follow and my stomach rumbles. I haven’t eaten since last night. I refused breakfast, feeling sick.
I think I ought to take this moment to tell you now that my aunt and uncle are slightly eccentric. Well no, not that. They’re more rather… Living in the 60’s. That’s when their house was built and that’s how they’ve stayed. My cousins managed to escape that particular ailment.. Just.
