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Actions Face Thier Consequence

Short story By: Khano

Tags: Hate, Lost, Anger

Writing on the perspective of a girl completely opposite to myself.

Submitted:Jun 30, 2010    Reads: 91    Comments: 7    Likes: 1   

Actions Face Their Consequence

People are usually afraid of the dark. I embrace it. The quiet, the freedom to do anything. It's my time. I live when people are asleep.

My thread-bare travel bag hangs over the chair. And for a split second I consider what I'm doing. But a tear spilling down my cheek and ripped heart inside, blinds whatever hesitation that's holding me back.

I wrench open my drawers and fill clothes inside the bag until it swells to it's capacity. I sling it over my shoulder, pull up my hoodie to darken my face, and slither into the deserted hallway.

For the last time I look at the people who made my life the hell-hole it is. My mother, her arms sweeping the floor, her mouth wide open. She looks like the witch she is alive, even asleep. I feel the hatred welling up inside me…poison, hissing venemous poison.

I see back in time, her shrieking at me, throwing things at me, crushing my feelings as if they were completely insignificant.

A ferocious heat shudders through me, like fire scalding each nerve, each cell. I clench my teeth down and shift my gaze to the man who probably cannot remember my name. The man people refer to as 'father' Yeah, the one who barely manages a sentence a week to his only daughter.

My disgusting brother who leaps everytime a female enters the door. I want to wring his brain and make him consume it, whilst I watch in an indulging pleasure.

I won't miss anything in this place, I won't miss anyone.

I stand outside the door, in the driveway, staring at the place that made me the lost wreck I am today. In my pocket crackles the wad of stolen cash, and credit card smuggled away.

I catch a refletcion of myself in the mirror, and the face that stares back is agonizingly unfamiliar. Her face is shadows, crumpled, drained of humaity, of any possible goodness.

I step back, a gasp ripping up my throat.

And then I notice someone standing beside me, looking shocked.

I turn. My face radiating that bad, hostile person I am. "Who are you?"

She was well-aged, but unrecognizable due to the darkness that masked her true image. She reached over and touched my damp cheek. "What….have we done to you?"

I hissed and shoved her hands away. "Who are you?" I repeated in an acidic voice.

"We've turned you into…a monster."

"What are you a witch or something?" I pulled my knife out of my pocket and caressed it behind my back.

She continued her melodramatic act, "You've become…a demon!"

"What the hell! Look, lady, I've run away from home, from all the shit people throw in my face. I don't need more from you. Don't you have knitting to do? Good, then get on with it."

"I'm so sorry," a tear glinted against the dark face.

"I don't need your pity, weirdo. Get out of my way."

"I'm so sorry," she repeated, grasping my hand.

"Ugh. Get your fingers off me woman. Save that crap for your daughter or something."

"I'm so sorry," her voice was a velvet, whispering chant.

An impulsive panic was all it took to smash my pen-knife into her chest. And another spasm of uncontrolled power pressed my hand against the wail that rushed through her lips.

I let her go and swore at the lifeless figure that crumpled to the ground. I leaned down and flicked on my phone, shining it in her face. And that was when the shriek escaped my own lips, everything in me became ice cold.

I was staring at the woman I loathed. Whom I'd killed so many times in dreams and reveries. The woman who, despite portraying a complete hatred of my existence, had run after me in the dead of night to say sorry.



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