Resist

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Young Adult  |  House: Booksie Classic
My story all started with a doll. A pretty but expressionless doll, wrapped with a perfectly sewed black satin dress...

Submitted: January 04, 2008

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Submitted: January 04, 2008

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Resist

 

For as long as I can remember, there hasn’t been a time that I’ve been able to resist my yearnings. My name is Morgan, I won’t tell you my last name because it’s not important. I was born nineteen miserable years ago. What I’m about to tell you is about pure insanity, out of my very own sadistic mind and imagination. This is why I’m sitting here covered in cold dark red blood, with a pen in my hand and a gun silently resting on my bed, beside me. What I’m about to write is no lie. I am a careless, unmindful and forgetful individual. I don’t have feelings but only hurting yearnings that has driven me mad. I have no resistance, but it never bothered me.

My story all started with a doll. A pretty but expressionless doll, wrapped with a perfectly sewed black satin dress and long silky dark brown hair. A pale and soft-faced doll, with pure red lips and blind blue eyes. The morning of my eighteenth birthday, I woke up to see a doll sitting on my nightstand, with a note resting on her leg. I did not take the time to take the note from my night table and read it. Later that night, I got a call from a rude man telling me that my mother had just died in a car accident.  Then I thought it would be best if I just wouldn’t read the note at all for fear that it would bring back terrible memories. I stayed in my bed, my knees up against my chest, as I rocked back and forth, for hours, days and nights, getting up from time to time to eat and read mysterious old books I found in my room. Other than that, I did nothing else but to look at the doll. For the entire eighteenth year of my life, I did nothing but to watch her. Watch that terrible doll as she looked at me with an empty look in her eyes, always looking at me, always watching my every single move. I knew she was thinking about me, always thinking about me. After a while, I decided to give her a name. I called her Lullaby because that’s what she sings to me all the time. She whispers lullabies to me inside of her head and she won’t stop. I hear her small voice in my head, whispering to me as a mother whispers to her child at night to drift them off to sleep. Melodic words, constantly there, in one’s mind, as a lulling song. My lullaby.

Then one night, I was sitting on my bed, in my morbid room, as the moonlight came shining through my window in a white bright light. I looked at her and was listening to her when I heard a sudden boisterous musical noise. I hated that sound, a stricken stringed noise. It played off and on, playing at about the same hour every night. It was a loud and hateful sound of violin music, screeching inside my ears.

That’s when Lullaby told me her secret, a disturbing secret she made me keep to myself. She wanted me to do it for her. Making me do that terrible secret of hers. She wanted me to hurt that yet unknown fiddler. Kill him to make him stop pouring that awful noise out of his evil musical instrument, she said.

It became unmelodious to me. That joyless noise became painful to hear. After the third night, I couldn’t stand it anymore. The act of killing is a terrible sin, but what can happen in the mind of a careless person such as myself. Even though I chose to wait, I had to resist the hatred inside me. I had to resist, resist every night as the fiddler pinched the strings with his bow. Resist the arousing hate of the violin music. Resist the dreadful whispers in my head. The words she softly said in my ears every minute. Fortunately, for me and my doll, I live with no apology and no regret.

Like I said before, I have no resistance. Therefore on the fifth night, I slowly carried myself incautiously across my bedroom floor taking with me my beloved gun by my side. Holding the cold metal against the palm of my hand made me smile from ear to ear as I walked across my empty living room floor and across the broken door frame. I walked step by step up the large stairway, walked across the deserted hallway and stood before the fiddler’s door. I grabbed the cold doorknob and very, very slowly, turned it and flanged it open. The violin music suddenly stopped at my presence and I got to see the dark face of a young black haired man who stood motionless at the sight of my weapon that I held tightly in my hand.

He carried his violin the same way I was carrying my gun. I still had a smile on my lips, tilting my head to the side, glaring at him. I couldn’t believe he just stood still helpless and voiceless. I very, very slowly raised my arm to point the gun at him. “Three… Two… One…” I softly whispered, with a smirk, and gladly pulled the trigger five times with a ticking rhythm of a heart beat. His violin fell to the ground and soon after, his lifeless body followed to the floor. Four bloody holes pierced his body and one hole appeared through the cracked violin.

I contently walked towards his pathetic body and took the soundless violin with me. I walked back to my bedroom and sat down on my bed setting the violin and my gun beside me. Lullaby was still looking at me with her infamous blind eyes. She was proud of me, she said. Now the room was filled with an easy silence. How I love that silence. Calm soundless melody.

And for the first time in days, I felt like sleeping forever. I was terribly tired and could not stand still. I slowly lay down on my bed and closed my restless eyes. Just as I was about to fall asleep, a horribly cold drop fell on my shoulder. A small rain-like drop made my eyes open and my body rise. I looked over my shoulder and saw this small wet cold drop dripping along my arm. A red cold drop. I looked up at the ceiling and saw a large red spot forming on the old wooden ceiling of my bedroom. I quickly shifted my gaze at Lullaby who was watching at me, and looked at the violin. I could almost hear the laughter inside her. Then, another drop fell on my thigh. I quickly brushed it away, when another one fell on the satin bed sheet. And another on my hand. Cold red drops covered my bed. The fiddler’s lifeless body was laying there above my bedroom, his blood covering me and my only fortress.

A red drop fell on Lullaby. It was her fault, I didn’t kill the fiddler, she made me do it. She indulged with me her secrets. She is to blame. Like I always tell myself: It’s not a lie if they make you lie.

It reminded me of a story my late mother once told me when I was much younger entitled The Heart is Deceitful. I won’t ever doubt the meaning of this fateful story. Therefore, here I am on the nineteenth year of my ridiculously romantic life, I am drenched in dark red blood with equally covered bloody walls surrounding me, dark red puddle of blood on my floor and satin bed.

I took a pen and a few blank pages of paper. Later I shall take my beloved gun to my temple and hold my endearing doll tight against my heart with the evil violin by my side. This is where it ends.


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