Untitled

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Thrillers  |  House: Booksie Classic


I was stuck for a while on a concept for a book and ended up starting from the middle. Eventually, instead of sticking with that plot, I just let my creativity flow and turned it into a short
story. It is pretty vague, and I truly don't know where I would have gone from there so I just stopped writing the story



Enjoy:)

Submitted: October 28, 2017

A A A | A A A

Submitted: October 28, 2017

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A A A


 

 

 

There is no difference now- between her sweat and the hot, sticky rain that falls from the orange sky. She pushes harder, willing her body to run faster until her legs can carry her no further. She tries to escape the stampede of feet behind her. Suddenly she stops and collapses in the middle of the familiar dark, muddy bay. Her tears weave a silent path down her beautiful, flaming red cheeks. Her brown hair sticks to the back of her dripping wet body, as she blindly surrenders.

“What have I done?” She mumbles under her breath.



 

The silence is agonizing. The room, a blinding shade of white, makes everything worse. She has always hated white; to her the color is purity, and nothing of what she has done or witnessed is pure. For hours she tries to keep her eyes closed and pretend she is asleep. Eventually the constant beep beep of the device she was hooked up to, drives her to insanity. What the heck is this thing? Fear surrounds her like a suffocating blanket until she finally gives into the poison they have leaked into her system. The annoying beeping and the terrifying silence is drained out by the painful peacefulness of sleep.

 

“What’s your name?”

“Where am I?”

“I said what is your name?”

“Oh I know what you said, but I don’t think you heard me.” She mocks. ”I asked where am I?” The words come out as a harsh whisper, her dry throat preventing her from shouting. The quarrel between the two has been going on for hours, and within those hours exactly 7.5 ounces of poison has been leaked into her system. Or so it says on the poorly concealed computer screen. She knows it is supposed to be a threat, but they forgot one thing: she would rather die than admit what she has done and what she saw that evening on the bay. The scene replays in her mind, draining out the man’s irritating demands.

“Are you done interrogating me? I’m tired.” She complains, knowing that he will just drip more poison into her veins.

“Fine.” He replies, sauntering out of the room. The man was smarter than she thought. Instead of showing her the valuable purple serum, he exits the room, leaving the girl in stunned silence.




Days turn into weeks, and weeks into time she stops trying to keep track of. Although saying those few words could give her life, she refuses to share the experience on the bay. And, of course, she finds no point in living if it was without him. For he was the one who dragged her into the mess, and she would die with the regret that she wasn’t the one to drive the blade through his chest.

 

 


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