Author's Note: For this point of view piece I had to change my perspective to enhance the voice of Carrie Ann, from House At The End Of The Street.
Colorless birds harmonized to the eerie melody. Faded willow trees whisper and dance in the
breeze. The children giggle and prance
on the blistering pavement. Gazing
through throw the dusty window, her eyes dreary and exhausted. Condensation moistened the glass, as her
fragile fingers traced a heart. The
heart that once beat. The heart that
once laughed. The heart that once loved.
Black
and white, the world was spinning. Reality had become a distant dream, now out
of grasp. Feelings and emotion were lost
in her foggy remembrance, blurred by horrid memories. Lost in deep thought, brooding about
life. Left in history, reliving her past
lives. Painful flashbacks pondered
through her dark mind, leaving her gasping for words, fighting back tears. Hours pass, night falls, the morning sun
glistens, seasons come and go.
Life
didn’t stop for me. It goes on, we have
to adjust. I notice the little things,
because I know they won’t be there forever.
Tomorrow holds no promise.
Forever is a fantasy. Eternity
does not exist. The bruised apple, dangling from the tree,
floating through my mind. One day that
rosy, red apple will have fallen. It
will have collapsed into the bitter, unbreakable despair. Beaten and turned away. As seconds pass thoughts shift and feelings
grow fainter. Nothing is forever. Because what you have today may not be there
tomorrow. Everything is only temporary
in life. The everlasting love I once had is no longer. Never get used to anybody, I’ve learned they
can leave you at any moment. In the end,
all you really have are the memories they have granted you.
Sometimes
it’s better to keep quiet than to tell others how you feel. Because it hurts when you know they can hear
you, but cannot understand you. Some
days I need to be my own hero, because nobody sees the world quite like I
do. Abandoned in my own world of
curiosity and vagueness. Head locked in
place, gawking up at the empty ceiling.
Hollow and vacant, like myself.
Gathering my train of thought I hoist myself to my frail feet. Shoulders slumped I unlock the cellar door,
and wind my way up the wooden staircase.
As I pass the family portraits I
feel a tear trickle down my clammy cheek.
I try to keep my focus attentive as I make my way toward the back
door. Pausing to peer up at the
twinkling stars, painted across the mysterious, blue sky.
We’re like shooting stars, we fall to let someone else’s wish come true.
