Post by valcentica on Sept 27, 2007 16:59:08 GMT -5
I was never perfect. I mean, no human ever is, right? But I was always normal. An every day person….and I still am, sort of. I was so young when it happened. I mean, it’s been a while since I was—or has it? Time passes so differently when you’re like this. I think I was sixteen or seventeen. Yeah, that’s it, sixteen. I can’t remember much—though I remember the important things. I remember my mom. She was so beautiful. And my dad was great. I never really got out much, I was home schooled. Mom was a lawyer from Harvard and dad was a neuroscientist, so we all figured I’d get the best education I could at home. Friends were never necessary, I mean, I’d had a puppy—I think. I believe his name was Rover, but I don’t think I’d had him for very long when it happened. Maybe a week, but no matter. I had everything I’d ever need right in my home. We weren’t totally rich or anything, but for a lawyer and a neuroscientist, we lived pretty well. I could read and write by the time I was three. My dad made me memorize the Periodic table when I was six. At the same age, my mom taught me the structures of arguments, debates, and even introduced me to my very own copy of Grey’s Anatomy. The next few years are fuzzy. I guess a few things get lost in the shift. The few things I couldn’t do by ten were listening and the ability to stop talking. It seemed like everyone else in the room had the time and the patience to give up their thoughts and hear someone else’s side. I however, did not. I never did understand that. Not even in my remaining six years. Because of what my parents had taught me, I would always talk to grown-ups at parties, and I never had to sit at the kiddie table. Even if I wanted to. I was just accustomed to adults and their thinking processes. Plus the other kids said stuff and played with toys that I had never been introduced to. Don’t get me wrong, I had toys. Just not in the way that you’d think. I never had Barbies, or dolls, or Legos, or fake veterinary equipment. I had the real stuff. Thousand piece puzzles and real veterinary equipment. I even had a ball that when rolled, taught Algebra and Geometry. It was fun, and I’d never known anything different.
Even our neighborhood block was foreign to me. On occasion, mom would take me shopping with her or dad would take me to work, but usually I stayed at home and read or studied. I guess that’s why I never noticed. Maybe even if I’d known to look, I wouldn’t have seen him. It doesn’t really matter much now. Mom would say that apathy solves nothing. She might even suggest I try to argue my way out of this. I don’t know. I mean, I kind of like it. My mind seems endless and all I have to do is wait. It’s like I can think about everything or nothing. I’ve got all the time in the world, too many possibilities to count; and still time enough not to take action for a while. Just waiting. Before I waited too, but not like this. I used to know what I was waiting for. Mom to come home, or for dinner to be ready, or even that impatient anticipation I felt when I was on the last couple pages of my book. Now I have no idea what I’m waiting for, only that I’m waiting.
I guess it happened a week ago. Or was it a year? I can never tell. I remember a little bit. Occasionally some more of it will come back to me. But that’s only for a moment. Mostly I remember being surprised, and very, very scared. I can sort of remember what he said to me. It was something like “I’ve been watching you for a while,” or whatever. When I first got here, that phrase haunted me, but now it doesn’t seem to matter all that much. I was sitting in the armchair by the fireplace in the library—or was it in the living room? No, it was the library. My parents weren’t home; they’d gone to some benefit or another. It was sort of a Beauty and the Beast moment. I was sitting in the chair, facing the fireplace, when I heard footsteps. My favorite book—The Stand, by Stephen King—was in my lap. He came up behind me and whispered in my ear. He told me he’d been watching me and not to move. I remember a shudder; whether it came from me or him, I can’t remember—but it was probably me. I always shuddered when I was cold, or alone, or surprised. I think his voice was what did it. It held a crispness I’d never heard; never wanted to hear. It was like from a dream, or a nightmare. His whisper sent a chill up my spine and I think I asked him who he was or how he’d gotten in. It turned out I’d asked both. Who he was didn’t matter; he’d broken a window. I suppose by then it was too late to act. My brain whirred. I figured he was a psychotic stalker or another, and like always, I just couldn’t keep my mouth shut. If I put my hand to my throat, it helps me remember the pressure of that rising shout. That bubble that my brain tried to suppress; too late. I shrieked. And if I put my hands on my knees, I can still feel that shuddering jolt as I jumped to my feet, and was knocked to the wood floor. I suppose it was my stalker who’d done it, as there could be no other reason for why my face burned in that moment, or why a second later, I think I heard the words “I told you not to, oh well,” in a cool, crisp voice. Another shuddering breath. When I put my hand on my side, I can still feel it. I can still feel the gaping wound. I can still feel the dried blood and I still shiver when I think of vaguely seeing the shadow of his arm with a knife, plunging downwards. After that moment, everything went black, and here I am.
Again, I have paragraph issues. And probably some spelling stuff to. I tihnk I need more detail...but I'll get to that later. The ending....I know it's a tad abrupt, but it's totally open to your interpretation. Comments would be great. THANKS!
Even our neighborhood block was foreign to me. On occasion, mom would take me shopping with her or dad would take me to work, but usually I stayed at home and read or studied. I guess that’s why I never noticed. Maybe even if I’d known to look, I wouldn’t have seen him. It doesn’t really matter much now. Mom would say that apathy solves nothing. She might even suggest I try to argue my way out of this. I don’t know. I mean, I kind of like it. My mind seems endless and all I have to do is wait. It’s like I can think about everything or nothing. I’ve got all the time in the world, too many possibilities to count; and still time enough not to take action for a while. Just waiting. Before I waited too, but not like this. I used to know what I was waiting for. Mom to come home, or for dinner to be ready, or even that impatient anticipation I felt when I was on the last couple pages of my book. Now I have no idea what I’m waiting for, only that I’m waiting.
I guess it happened a week ago. Or was it a year? I can never tell. I remember a little bit. Occasionally some more of it will come back to me. But that’s only for a moment. Mostly I remember being surprised, and very, very scared. I can sort of remember what he said to me. It was something like “I’ve been watching you for a while,” or whatever. When I first got here, that phrase haunted me, but now it doesn’t seem to matter all that much. I was sitting in the armchair by the fireplace in the library—or was it in the living room? No, it was the library. My parents weren’t home; they’d gone to some benefit or another. It was sort of a Beauty and the Beast moment. I was sitting in the chair, facing the fireplace, when I heard footsteps. My favorite book—The Stand, by Stephen King—was in my lap. He came up behind me and whispered in my ear. He told me he’d been watching me and not to move. I remember a shudder; whether it came from me or him, I can’t remember—but it was probably me. I always shuddered when I was cold, or alone, or surprised. I think his voice was what did it. It held a crispness I’d never heard; never wanted to hear. It was like from a dream, or a nightmare. His whisper sent a chill up my spine and I think I asked him who he was or how he’d gotten in. It turned out I’d asked both. Who he was didn’t matter; he’d broken a window. I suppose by then it was too late to act. My brain whirred. I figured he was a psychotic stalker or another, and like always, I just couldn’t keep my mouth shut. If I put my hand to my throat, it helps me remember the pressure of that rising shout. That bubble that my brain tried to suppress; too late. I shrieked. And if I put my hands on my knees, I can still feel that shuddering jolt as I jumped to my feet, and was knocked to the wood floor. I suppose it was my stalker who’d done it, as there could be no other reason for why my face burned in that moment, or why a second later, I think I heard the words “I told you not to, oh well,” in a cool, crisp voice. Another shuddering breath. When I put my hand on my side, I can still feel it. I can still feel the gaping wound. I can still feel the dried blood and I still shiver when I think of vaguely seeing the shadow of his arm with a knife, plunging downwards. After that moment, everything went black, and here I am.
Again, I have paragraph issues. And probably some spelling stuff to. I tihnk I need more detail...but I'll get to that later. The ending....I know it's a tad abrupt, but it's totally open to your interpretation. Comments would be great. THANKS!