Home Alone

December 4, 2010
By xxzoE SILVER, Ringwood East, Other
xxzoE SILVER, Ringwood East, Other
7 articles 5 photos 17 comments

Favorite Quote:
Every artist dips his brush in his own soul, and paints his own nature into his pictures. ~Henry Ward Beecher

Over the sound of the television blaring, the rain beats down on the metallic tin roof. I try to concentrate on the black and white figures in front of me with the large elaborate hats and very smart suits but the wind beating against the window unsettles me.

A man wearing an expensive looking suit pulls a shot gun from his pocket and holds it against the side of a large unshaven mans head- “you rat, you killed my brot…” The screen goes blank only the reflection of the fire breaks the black screen.

I hold my breath, although pointless, and goosebumps cover my body. I grab the remote and press all the buttons but the blackness stays, mocking me. I push myself from off the ground and start descending the stairs. As my vision of the lower level grows I see that the back door is open. Sure that I shut it earlier I grab the handle shutting it with a bang and I lock it, once again, this time with the deadbolt.

As the bang echoes through the house my dog starts barking at my brothers’ bedroom. I walk carefully- as not to make a noise- towards the door. “Hey buddy, what’s in there?” I whisper to my dog as though he is going to reply. I slowly lift my hand to the door handle and twist it but before I can push I say, louder than I expected “this is how a scary movie starts.” Defeated I let go of the gold knob and step back.

I twist my body around fast, my feet taking an extra second to follow. I walk into my already lit room and look around. In the far corner is a cricket bat. I rush over to it- not even thinking about the strangeness of having a cricket bat in my room. I grab it with my left hand and throw it over my shoulder, almost knocking a painting off the wall.

Pleased that I would be protected if I was right and there was someone on the other side of the door, I grab the knob once again and this time twist and push in one motion. The door bangs against the wall and makes a solid thump.

The room smells of rain, damp yet fresh. Posters fly around, the way cars are thrown in a cyclone. The rain hitting the carpet makes a muffled sound. Amount the papers and random socks stands a lone bird unaware that he has just been sprung.

I immediately step out of the room shutting the door which frightens the bird who I can hear flying around inside the four enclosed walls. After thinking about what I should do I turn back to my room and turn it upside down looking for a phone. Finally I hear its familiar ringing coming from my bed. I crouch down on all fours, the carpet making a square pattern on my knees. I bend my head, bombarded by the smell of dust, and slide my arm under the bed, retrieving the black, plastic rectangle. “Hello?” I speak into it unsure. Just as the person on the other end says something that I can’t make out, I can hear the banging of the back door. “Hold on.” I say back at the person on the phone. I slip the phone in my pocket, grab the cricket bat lying on my bed and walk down the hallway.

The sound of the rain, which beats on the metallic tin roof makes the sound less defined. As I walk around the corner I see that someone is struggling to open the door from the outside. My legs turn to jelly and I can both hear and feel my heart thumping in my chest. The door opens followed by a loud swoosh and rain pouring through the opening. I shut my eyes as I push my weight through the bat clenched in both my sweaty hands. As it comes down I open my eyes. There standing in front of me holding, with one hand, the end of the cricket bat is my dad. His stunned expression made me laugh.

The author's comments:
I wrote this for a creative writing task for school. It was supposed to be a true story, and mine is.... kind of. It includes 2 separate times- both true yet slightly exaggerated.

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