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| Hannah's Past; Written in First Person, incomplete | |
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| Topic Started: Dec 24 2008, 02:56 AM (30 Views) | |
| Dark Hannah | Dec 24 2008, 02:56 AM Post #1 |
Mage Apprentice
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My name is Hannah, Hannah Murie Shalurk. At least, that is the name my mother and father agreed on before he disappeared from our lives. My mother, siblings, and I never found out what happened, or if he was even alive. We lived in the middle of the woods, where with the night came danger. Before I was born, my mother and father had three sons and two daughters. Their names, in order, were Dameon, Edward, Jaque, and the twin girls, Abigail and Amarilla. After my father disappeared, the rest of us dealt with the pain as best we could, and life moved on. Mother didn’t like talking about him much. However, we kids decided, by unspoken consent, that by talking about him, telling great tales about him, he lived on. We felt that our words and stories were what fed him and kept him alive. We never knew his name. We didn’t dare ask mother, so he remained “father” in our stories. These legends that we created were also the biggest connection between my slightly older siblings and I. When we went outside to amuse ourselves, I was a bit of a loner. While the others played made up games, I could be found up in a tree somewhere. When I was twelve years old, something bad happened, and all five of my siblings died mysteriously. This left just my mother and I alone in our big empty house. After these strange deaths, my mother changed. After the disappearance of father, she was still warm and loving, but more quiet. After my siblings deaths however, she became cold and distant. I tried to comfort her, but to no avail. I guess there is just something that makes a mother slightly insane when she loses her children. With time, she only got worse. I learned quickly to stay out of her way. Even the slightest thing could set her off. In order to not bother her, or to not be the cause of one of her breakdowns, I went outside and explored the surrounding woods; I went farther and farther out each day. I remember one day that began a huge change in me. My mother and I were in the house. She had wanted a glass of water, and was walking toward the kitchen. As she passed an end table, she somehow bumped it. The picture that had been sitting on the table fell. It seemed to pause just before tipping over the edge, and light glinted off the frame. Then, with a crash and a tinkle, it exploded upon the floor, sending glass shards everywhere. I looked down at the starburst the shattered glass created, the crash still resounding in my ears. I saw movement, and looked up to see my mother drop suddenly to her knees, heedless of the glass shards digging their way under her skin. She made a kind of choking noise and crawled on hands and knees to the center of the glittering starburst. Blood trailed behind her from her hands and knees. Tears streamed silently down her cheeks as she slid the photograph from under the pile of glass. It was the only family photo there was. Knowing full well what was coming, I carefully stepped over the glass shrapnel to her side and gently touched her shoulder. I could see her hands trembling as she held the picture. I carefully led her by the arm over to a chair. Then, using our broom and a piece of paper, I gathered up the fragments of glass and dumped them into the garbage bin in the kitchen. Making my way back to the chair in which my mother sat, I kneeled next to her and looked up at her face. She still was focused on the photo I her hands. I moved my eyes to it, and gazed with awe as the blood from her hands seeped through the picture. The blood created inertia of a stain that kept moving. The stain crept along, and began devouring my siblings. I looked back to her face, then to her knee. I could see some of the pieces of glass sticking out. I glanced at my mother’s face once more, then I cautiously used my fingernails to grasp and pluck out a fragment. My mother didn’t move. A small trail of blood rolled down her leg. I grasped another, and another. I took out almost all of the shards I could see sticking out and had them in a pile when my mother moved. She gave a mighty sob, her knee jerked, and my hand hit it. I looked at her eyes again, worried I might have hurt her. If there was any pain felt, she sure didn’t show it. She was then washed over with sobs. The breakdown was beginning. My mother then realized that I was in the room there with her, and threw the bloodied picture in my direction. She began yelling unintelligibly, something about my fault, and jumped up from the chair, throwing it backwards. As she ran into the kitchen, I picked the picture up off the floor. Something tingled in the back of my mind when I noticed the blood stain had stretched across each of my siblings, but her bypassed my mother and I. the tingle became a buzz as I watched the stain become mobile once more. It was feeding on the blood from my own hands. The hairs on the back of my neck rose as the reddish blotch grew away from my siblings to the scenery around them. I experienced a sharp pain, and the stain began devouring my mother as well. I don’t know why, but my heart began to race as I stared at the photo. I can’t describe it, but I then understood why my mother could not keep her eyes from it. The stain completely engulfed my mother now. Then, as I watched, the movement stopped. My breath quickened. The blood has washed over everyone in the photo, except myself. Why didn’t the stain touch me? I don’t know why, but I was disturbed that it didn’t take me as well. I began rubbing my bloody hand on the picture, trying to apply more to it. I gasped and my stomach did a flip as the blood from my hand added to the stain, but would not apply to my face or body in the picture. As many times as I tried, the stain never touched me. (to be continued) |
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8:07 PM Nov 30
