Rated PG, Whatever violence may be in this is extremely mild(i.e. the dropping of a candle, an opossum hissing, etc), No suggestive content and No swearing.
This is unfinished, and currently the story I'm working on until I either run into a well or begin another story. Hopefully this one gets done. I like where it's going. Constructive Criticism is welcome as long as the person giving it knows what he/she is talking about. biggrin Enjoy!
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1
An empty recliner sat isolated in his living room. The dust promised to keep it warm. Not a single area in this room was lit by light.
Someone was approaching. An old man, holding a white candle in his right hand, walked slowly toward the middle of the room. The shadows moved out of his way. He stopped once he reached the recliner. He did not sit.
He turned to face the large mirror opposite him. It mocked his existence. His unkempt beard made him feel lonelier than ever.
He slowly lifted his left hand and gripped his hat.
The hat gently fell onto the carpet. The old man sighed at the dim sight of his head. Veins were clearly visible and twitching. He stood there examining every wrinkle, every flaw in his face.
But it was not his hideous appearance that caused him to shudder.
The old recliner was empty. The room was empty. The house was empty.
He was alone. He was cold. He could not remember anything except that there was nothing.
In frustration he attempted to throw the candle at the mirror. He had forgotten that he was a very old man.
The candle fell from his hand and rolled gently away as the room was flooded by darkness.
The man fell to his knees and wept. He wept bitterly knowing that no one was around to hear him. It was as if he was in a nightmare. Those certain nightmares where you wish you had the strength to do something but your bereft of all your abilities to move.
As if a beast was attacking him and all he could do was throw flowers at him.
He sobbed uncontrollably, for decades it seemed, before he heard it.
It was loud and it had the old man’s immediate attention. The sound of glass breaking somewhere near his kitchen.
He could not see; fear consumed him. His face was moist and his body ached. His only thought was of curiosity. His house looked abandoned and he had nothing of value.
Who could possibly want to rob me? Am I to be robbed of my recliner, my house, of my very existence?
He felt that enough time had passed. He would go and see what it was that interrupted his sorrow. He crawled along the floor feeling around for his candle.
When he found it he reached out for the recliner. He always kept his matches on the seat. He lit the candle and with his every moment pace he walked toward the kitchen.
2
The kitchen was empty. His old eyes did manage to catch something that was out of order. The kitchen window was open.
He then saw movement in the sink. He walked toward it, regretting every step. Everything was silent except that scratching sound coming from his sink.
He looked into the sink and saw fur. He moved the candle a little closer.
A loud hiss pierced his ears.
The candle fell into the sink and a sizzled opossum ran out through the window and into the rain.
The old man was on the floor terrified. Again surrounded by darkness. He was amazed that his heart continued to pump life through him. His mind was convinced that he was attacked by a demon.
His body shaking, he stood and reached for the open window.
He yelled a coarse, “You demons, are not allowed in my home!” before sliding the window shut and locking it.
The man felt his way to the sink, where he got a hold of his candle. He sighed deeply as he turned and felt his way back to his recliner.
Once their, he lit his candle, placed it on the small table by the recliner, then seated himself. His body had not stopped rattling. One could hear his bones deteriorating with each passing second.
After a few thoughtless moments, he remembered the creature in the kitchen and came to the sensible conclusion that it was not a demon. As a matter of fact, he thought, it was not real at all. The man began to relax at the thought of something spontaneous like that happening to him. He tried to smile, then gave up. His old skin would not allow him to be happy.
Remorse, filled his soul. The deep agony that was his past bit at him and slowly dragged him down, until he found himself laying on the carpet the next morning. He forced his large eyes open. Tears fell from them as they adjusted to the light, and tried desperately to make the man’s surroundings clear.
3
I apologize reader for not informing you of this man’s past. I feel I do owe you some information, but I will refrain from writing this man’s biography. His life story is not why I am writing.
He once had a wife. Not the prettiest wife, but extremely loyal and loving. He loved her with every definition of the word. He thought that she would live past his years and be happy. His only positive thought now, is that she died first, and is void of all this pain.
They had two children. Boys. The first died while the couple were both alive. He died in a car accident. Our man wept for weeks and would not accept that his son was gone. His perfect son. His handsome, successful boy.
The younger one was able to attend his mother’s funeral. But sadly the boy wanted nothing to do with his stubborn father. He felt pain in his heart for the man that raised him. Pain from the favoritism the man had toward the elder brother. Pain from the mental challenges he had gone through because of this man that still had refused to hug him. Pain and pity for a lost man. This young boy was last seen by his father that day. Before he left however he made sure to cut his father deep. He said to him, “Now that my mother is gone there is no reason to visit that depressed household, because without her it is nothing more then an empty and bitter presence. A place that should not exist.”
The old man did not know that his son had those feelings. He was torn and anguish ripped his heart. His stubborn mind got the best of him, however, and he replied with a stern, “Leave, then.” Just as poor Nicholas walked away, his father said in a voice just loud enough for the boy to hear, “Jacob would not have disrespected me.”
Ten years had passed since that hateful day. The house he lived in he cared nothing about. The light bulbs all fried and he refused to replace them. To change anything. He thought he could reverse things. To make things better. But all he truly wished for was to be ignorant of what was happening in his life. Every night since the funeral the man apologized to Nicholas. He never loved one son better than the other. He never knew what went through his boy’s mind. He would weep for him. He would regret his words, his ignorance toward his young son‘s achievements. He would watch the elders of the community walk their grandchildren and have spite in his heart. Pure hate for those happy people.
This man did not know why he was still breathing and would have taken his life if he did not feet that he deserved the pain.
This is what makes the man weep, what makes him regret, what makes him sigh. This is what is slowly killing him. Nothing else in his past will I reveal. It is the future we are interested in.
4
He realized where he was. He was in the kitchen. He had wandered in his sleep again. wink wink
