Lost Scream

July 5, 2016
By rowan.hall BRONZE, Edinburgh, Other
rowan.hall BRONZE, Edinburgh, Other
1 article 0 photos 0 comments

Thursday, 8th of November, 1838
The world is cold. Horizontal rain hammers down on the hard cobbles of the streets of the city. A rich man with a bowler hat struts briskly along the road, barely even flinching at my presence. My hopes of a spare penny dash away like the torrents of rain running down the gutters. It seems no-one has time for me. I shiver as an icy drop of water makes it’s way slowly down my ragged dress. I clutch my necklace; the only gift my mother had left me before dumping me under a bridge as a toddler. It’s shiny metal glints in the sunset.
That was the day it happened. The end. All I remember was a flash of light, a wheel of a carriage. A rearing horse, it’s eyes flaming with terror, it’s hooves pounding across the pavement like a clap of thunder. I could hear the shouts of a man as he comes sprinting out of his carriage. Pain shoots up my leg like a thousand bullets and my twisted face screeches in agony.
I know this is it. This is the end. I’m going to leave it all behind. The cold. The misery. All my worries, all my fears. I could see everything below me on the street, the man, the carriage, the road which was now flowing with my crimson blood, mixing with the rain water. But all of it now seemed so insignificant. None of it mattered anymore. I was finally free.
Tuesday 8th November, 1938
The little girl is gaining on me. Her strikingly sad blue eyes glare at me, as if she is staring straight into my soul. Her face is pale and sullen, and she is clothed in a ragged piece of cloth some would describe as a dress. A metal charm dangles of her skinny neck. I gasp in panic as she begins to descend on me, her dry, cracked lips starting to creep open.
“My mother.” her hoarse voice whispers, “Have you seen her?”.
All I can do is scream.
I’m running. Down the hard stone stairs. The girl’s croaky voice rings in my ears, and I start to wonder. Who was her mother? Who was the girl? Was she even real? Or a figment of my stretched imagination?
Suddenly it hits me. Those icy, sad blue eyes remind me of my own daughter. My daughter whom I had let down, all those years ago. I want to help this child.
I’m running. Back to her. Back to my daughter. My heart beats faster than it’s ever beat before.
Pain shoots up my arm, and my body screams in agony. My horrific wailing startles the girl, but I know she can’t help me. Nothing and no-one can help me now. I collapse onto the cold hard stone. A strike of agony makes its way into my chest. I can feel it flow through my bloodstream, straight through to my heart.
I know this is it. This is the end.

The author's comments:

I was inspired to write this piece of work after learning about Mary Shelley's Frankenstien in school. I thought it would be fun to make up my own horror story.

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