Strength - Very Short Story

Strength

I jumped. Then I changed my mind.

Until a few moments ago, I was sure there was nothing to live for anymore. But now… Maybe things would have gotten better, but I hadn’t considered that a moment ago. It’s too late now.

The wind is rushing up around me. It seemed to be screaming, “Fool! What have you done?!” I closed my eyes. Tears are moving up my face with the wind. My hair whipped out of my braid. My throat was tight with regret.

I tried not to think about the jagged rocks in the water below me. It’s too late now.

My heart beat one last time and stopped forever.

><><><

Darkness.

Suddenly, a projection popped up. “Game Over” it read. Below it were two options, “End Game” and “Try Again”.

Everyone should have a second chance, right? Not that I knew what this meant, but trying again sounded good. I hit the button that read “Try Again”, not sure what I was getting into.

><><><

I am Victoria Young. Fourteen years old. Living with a single mother in a house. She is at work often, and I am left home alone.  

As I am now. Reading.

The rain pounds on the window. Lightning cracks the sky open. The thunder sounds as if it’s here to take over the world. The sky is gray and gloomy. The outside air isn’t fresh, like it usually is when it rains, instead it feels suffocating, thick.

Reading. The house is gray and dark. I’m reading with a small lamp that projects minimal, dim light. I’m still reading, and it’s still raining, when the long, twisted, bony fingers appeared. With their unbelievably long nails, they scrape along the glass, creating a horrible screech.

Horror like I’ve never felt it before hits me.

Five scratches are left on the window. And I am inside, with nothing but a book to protect me.

I am frozen. I tell my legs to move, to run, but they don’t respond.

At the window, a face appears. It is abnormally pale with brown blemishes. He’s old and looks to be made out of nothing but bone and skin. A scar runs from his brow to his jaw. One eye is white and useless where the scar runs through it. He looks and seems human, but I know that he isn't. I can feel it. A feeling of panic fill me and further alerts me of his presence.

The man stares at me, and I am too terrified to break it. His other eye is a faded blue color, his white hair blazing against the grayness.

He turns his head to the front door slowly. Then looks back at me. He turns his whole body in the direction of the door and walks to it with his gangly legs.

There is a knock on the door, and as if I was under hypnosis, unable to resist, I walked to it, and opened it.

Then I came to my senses and screamed. It was a gruesome sound. The windows around the house rattled. Plates broke in the kitchen. But the man, that dreadful ghostly man, just stood there, staring at me, waiting for me to finish screeching.

I would have continued for hours, but my voice broke and I stopped. He smiled darkly, a snake’s smile. One that petrified its victims and makes terror run up and down its veins.

His arms reached out to me slowly, and in that second, my legs decided to run for it.

Up the stairs, down the hall, and to my room. I whacked the door shut, locked it, and calmed myself. In for 4, hold for 7, out for 8. In for 4, hold for 7, out for 8. I repeated the method five times.

Abruptly, the sun came out, the sky was blue and the house seemed to became colorful again. My heart slowed down, as if it could sense he was gone. I somehow knew he was. That feeling of panic had vanished.

“Victoria!” Mom called, “I’m home!”

I cautiously opened the door to my room and walked down the stairs. Mom really was home, and the nightmarish man had gone. But where? How had he managed to disappear so suddenly? Was he scared of my mother? If so, I would keep my mother by my side forever more. It had been a nightmare made real.

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The silence woke me.

I don’t know what was so different about it. It didn’t just seem like a lack of noise in the house. It seemed like everyone’s soul had frozen. Everyone in the world.

I sat up, and there, by the foot of my bed was the black silhouette of a tall, thin person.

My heart jumped into my throat and choked my scream.

I was falling.

><><><

I jumped in bed. My heart was thumping hard. It had just been a dream.

It was early morning and it was raining again. Outside was muggy, and the house looked like it was only black and white coloring. The clock read 8:07, which meant that Mom had already gone to work. I was left at the mercy of the inhuman man, again, if he decided to return to haunt me.

I walked down to the kitchen and pulled out two slices of bread to toast from the refrigerator. I slipped them in the toaster and claimed my book. I went to read, again, by that dim light.

Ding! I jumped. It had just been the toaster, even though my heart leapt like it was overcoming an obstacle.

That feeling of horror again.

I walked to the kitchen and gave a small, brief scream.

The man. He was back.

He calmly looked at me, then back at the toaster. He took a non-broken plate from our cupboards and took out my toast. He handed me the plate, but I backed away.

From what I gathered, this man could only move slowly, so speed was essential.

I turned to run again. My feet sprinted. Only-

It was slow.

I felt like I was running though maple syrup. Why couldn’t I sprint?! It was like in a dream, a nightmare.

He came up from behind me. I knew I had to get away.

I suffered the slowness all the way up to my room. As soon as I got to my room, the maple syrup around me vanished.

He was only a few feet from my door, so I slammed it as fast as I could and locked it. Only-

It didn’t fit. There were two inches between the door and the door frame. How could a door shrink?! He could easily reach in. I was sure I was going to die.

He was within a few inches. I would not accept this fate. I would not die in this way. Instead, I ran to my window. It was about a fifteen foot drop. Not enough to kill myself. I would get off with just a few broken bones.

I faced the door again. His wimpy arm reached through the space, slowly. Those long nails were yellow and rough and uncared for. The lock did nothing to stop the door from opening, I guess without being attached to the door frame, a door with a lock was useless. The door swung open. This was it.

In half a second, an idea dinged in my head. In the other half second, I lunged for the book on my bed. It was The Odyssey. A thick, heavy chronicle. Thank God.

I hurled it at the man.

He looked like the book would break his bones, but he caught it in his right hand without taking his lifeless eyes off me.

The window suddenly seemed like a great idea. I stepped up to it and looked down.

“Coward.” He whispered. It was the first word I heard him say. His voice was frail, quiet, and fragile, but in no way gentle. It sounded like a mix of glass breaking, and nails running along a chalk board.

I turned to face him.

“Coward. All you ever do is run from your problems. You are doing it again, now. Fight. Your name means victory. Your personality says something else. Coward.”

No. He was right. I would not run. This time, I would die bravely.

A sword appeared in his hand, “Any last words?”

“Yes, I just want to say that this is stupid.”

I closed my eyes. I did not want to know how my end would come. Yet, I peeked through one eye. He swung hard at my head and it was quick.

><><><

“Game Over”. This time, I hit “End Game”. One life had been enough. I should have made better choices during my first life. Kept my head up and smiled like nothing was bothering me. That was strength, that was valor. The bedroom decapitation was stupid. I had always wanted my last words to be, “I made it.”, but I clearly hadn’t made it.

Strength is smiling the next day like you weren’t crying last night. I had made mistakes in my first life, I cannot deny. But failing is another word for growing. I would have made it. I did not come that far to only come that far in life. I had been fourteen! At least another seventy years was expected. I hadn’t thought of my friends, my family when I had jumped. Only of myself. And what had it brought me? Nothing. Nothing but an even worse second life. I’d learned my lesson. I just wish I could go back to my first life. My school. My family. My friends. God, my friends. I hadn’t had a lot, but the few ones that I did, I had trusted with my life. They had my backs. I had theirs. “To whatever end.” We would always say. None of us thought that the end would be a cliff. I would give anything to talk to them again, to laugh, to smile with them. To share the inside jokes we had harbored. Just one last time.

Here is a very short story that I wrote for my English class narrative in seventh grade last year. It's not my best work but that's okay.