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A Hell of My Very Own

By samanthadaley All Rights Reserved ©

Thriller / Drama

Chapter 1

A small room lies before me. It is comfortable, with a large sofa and an ornate fireplace. The room is dimly lit, with a few candles flickering across the space. It is such a lovely place to call home, and yet, I am on the verge of suicide. At least, I would be, if I hadn’t already been damned to burn in the wretched fires of Hell for all eternity. If only I could escape damnation by dying again…

There is a small window to my left. Rain again. Not the pretty kind, either. It is the 666th day of cold, miserable, dreary rain. The weather is reflected in the atmosphere of the room. My body is quivering against the cold. The air is moist, and I am soaked to the bone. I feel like a kitten, unwillingly thrust into an icy bath. The fireplace is crackling merrily, the flames dancing majestically, but as I approach it, I feel not the heat.

I lay down on the sofa and press into the side, trying to trap any body heat I might still possess. I begin to drift into my own mind, searching for a distraction, when I am pulled out of my thoughts.

I hear the chink of silverware next door. Music is playing softly. It’s our song…

They do this to me every night! I sink into a state of depression and they feed off of it! They’re so close, yet so far away.The door’s locked, of course, so I can’t leave.

Where is she?

I wonder why she’s running so late. She’d never miss something like this.

I’m sure she’ll be here soon.

I hope so, I need her advice.

And Michael’s driving me crazy! He asks me about her every thirty seconds!

Speak of the Devil…

Have any of you heard from Samantha yet? I’m getting worried.

No, not yet.

She’s probably still doing her hair. You know how she is.

Yeah, I just…miss her so much… It’s been months…

We know…

I have a surprise for h—

And then it ends. I find myself pushed against the wall, tear after tear rolling down my frozen cheeks.

“I’m right here!” I scream “I’m right next to you! You just have to open the door!”

I scream myself hoarse. Before damnation, this would have driven me crazy, but now I don’t care. I don’t need a voice. They don’t let me sing anyway. Well, they let me. Of course they let me. But they’ve done something to my voice. It’s not mine, of that I am sure. I can’t seem to stay in tune, and it kills me. There’s no point in trying.

I’m actually unable to express myself in any way. I can play the piano beautifully on my lap, but as soon as my fingers touch the ivory keys of the Baby Grand, the music escapes me. I’ve tried to figure out simple songs like “Mary Had a Little Lamb”. I know which keys to press, but my hands slip and I play it up half a step. Even a C major chord screams horror in my ears. I can’t play softly. The lightest touch produces a fortissimo noise. For the most part, I’ve given up, but today, I’m tempted again.

I sit down and my foot automatically extends toward the pedal. It’s not there. An ominous omen. I look under the piano. It is right there! I can see it! Gold and shiny and less than an inch away. I move my foot and watch as it passes through the solid object. I bang on the keys harshly. An angelic chord resonates off the mahogany wood. I freeze and smile, for the first time in ages.

It’s been so long…

I carefully place my hands on the keys. Taking in a deep breath, I begin to play. Music flows from my fingertips, a soft mellifluous tone. I sing and it’s my voice! I’m playing as softly as possible, taking in every note.

Near, far, wherever you are,

I believe that the heart does go on

We’ll stay for—

It’s over. My voice screeches, my hand slips. A moment of bliss, disappearing as quickly as it came. Banging the keys in frustration, I am glad that the disharmony of the chord reflects my mood.

I sit on the sofa again. I lay there for hours, maybe days. I don’t know, really. I feel as though my clothes are turning to ice. The storm outside rages on. Wind whips the maple tree branches. My hair flies into my face.

I need a distraction. The writing desk is just behind me. I know it is futile, but I sit down anyway. Thick parchment is sprawled out in front of me. I start to pick up the fountain pen, but think twice. It’s never worked before. I look at the silver tea set to my left and dump the sugar out of the bowl and onto the floor. I have no use for it. The tea is always too strong and just cool enough that the sugar won’t dissolve. I unscrew the pens and pour the ink into the bowl. The mixing colors ooze together to create a dull brown. To my right, there is a bouquet of dead roses, black and drooping. There is the feather of a female peacock among the flowers. It matches the ink. I pick it up and press my finger to the tip. It is sharp, and my finger starts to bleed. A drop falls onto the claret carpet and fades away. I dip this makeshift quill into the ink and wait for an idea to hit me.

The river of ideas has dried up. Ink droplets fall and soak through the paper, and then disappear. I write my own name. It shimmers and then disappears. I look at my finger, no longer bleeding. I prick it again, allowing the crimson liquid to flow over the quill tip. I write now with my own blood. It’s grotesque, I know, but at least it stays on the paper.

Someone’s knocking at the door. Someone visits me at the end of each night. It means that soon I can sleep. I’m not sure who it is. Sometimes it’s my mom or my dad. My brother’s visited a few times. Rachel too. Of course, they’re not really visiting. They stand outside my door and talk. Sometimes they can hear me, sometimes they can’t. I can’t decided which is worse. Another knock. I should probably get this over with.

It was Michael. I could tell before I even heard his voice. He came to… to say goodbye…

He said that he knew that he was hurting me. He said that the distance was too much… too hard on him, on us…

He said that he didn’t want to cause me any more pain, and that he was sorry.

He said… he loved me.

And then he left…

He’s gone now, never to return again.

I can’t I just Words escape me. The world is fading away, ever so slowly. I suppose that… they’ve won…

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