An Only Christmas Story

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: True Confessions  |  House: Booksie Classic
I have been thinking a lot lately about the things which scare me more than anything else, and I have finally realised that the thing which scraes me most is being alone. This Christmas all I ask of you is to think about those who might be alone and maybe do what you can to help... It would mean a lot.

Submitted: December 22, 2011

A A A | A A A

Submitted: December 22, 2011



The door remained untouched. The lamps were dying and the teapot was stone cold by then. The carpet was collecting a dull haze of dust and the windows were misting over with little droplets of ice. The keys were on the side, in the bowl they were always in and the phone was sat next to it, full to capacity of messages which couldn’t have meant anything less. There were letters strewn across the dirt door mat but the letter opener was still in the box, in the cupboard under the stairs with the rusty sewing kit and the water stained photographs.

The air was lifeless and frozen. No flake of dust had been left unsettled and no noise could be heard through the powerful silence. The pan was still idle on the hob, half full of undistinguishable soup or something similar. The mug was sat next to it, full of chilled water which still withheld a teabag on the end of a frayed string. The milk was out of the open fridge which was only partially filled with wilted food. There were no lights in this room.

Upstairs, most of the doors were shut tight and hadn’t been opened in such a long time. The air remained frigid in the hall, just as it had been below. The only dull, white light that entered the room was filtering in from the shadowed bathroom.

In the bedroom the bed remained unmade after months of being left. The plant in the tight corner was suffocating and starving. There was no hope now. The bottom draw was slightly open, revealing a shallow layer of linen sheets that were moth eaten and greying on the edges.

There was a pair of glasses on the side next to a tired, old book under a cold lamp.

She sat in the chair.

Her face was old and creased with wisdom of years and decades and stories and knowledge. Her face was so distant and her touch was so cold. She would never admit it. She would reach out, and she couldn’t reach out. Even the book was no companion anymore.

She was so very alone.

And who was there to notice?

© Copyright 2018 Alice Bell. All rights reserved.

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