The End

Cold smoke filled the room as the first sun rays crept through the blinds. The air was so thick, you could almost cut it. The palm trees were swaying in the wind outside the house – a couple of crows screamed as they settled on the waving palm tree leaves.

She opened her eyes and found herself on the couch, facing towards the floor, with her head almost falling off the pillow. Her bare feet hung freely and her white nightgown showed smudges of dirt and small tears. She rubbed her dirty blonde hair out of her eyes and started sitting up.

Her head throbbed and she tried to make sense of the events that had just transpired. Putting an order to everything, but it simply would not make any sense. He was gone. She didn’t even remember what he looked like. But he was gone. He left a small chaos in the 2-bedroom house. When she turned her head to scan the room, her eyes lingered on the dirty dishes that filled up the sink. If anyone had seen her, they would have just thought it was the morning after a crazy frat party, and someone forgot about the girl.

She slowly lifted herself off the old couch, leather clinging to her body and made her way around the small living room on to the front porch. It looked like a beautiful day – like almost every day. But the weather did not match her confusion. The fresh air felt nice. In any other situation, she would’ve prepared herself a cup of coffee, picked up the latest edition of Branston Magazine and sat on the porch steps to welcome the day. But not after what happened. Why could she not remember anything?

She walked down the porch, her feet touching each wooden step carefully. The sprinklers had been bathing the grass which now cleaned her aching feet. As if she had been running all night.

The sprinklers made an even sound zzzt- zzzt- zzzt- zzzt. The one in the backyard just sped up a bit to a steady zz zz zz zz zz zz. Then it stopped. And started again slowly. Something was obstructing it. She walked towards the uneven sound and felt her heart racing again. Like when she was running. It came back to her slowly – the fear of despair and hopelessness. Being trapped in a room without a door or a window. She knew what was obstructing the sprinkler and sure enough – when she bent around the chipped wooden corner of the house, she saw him laying there – his lifeless leg pushed against the sprinkler and geared it toward the ground, forming a huge puddle of water, dirt, and blood.

A gaping wound with mostly dried blood on the back of his head revealed that he must have been lying there for a while. It suddenly all came back to her. Bit by bit.

Tears ran down her face as she mechanically grabbed his wallet out of his back pocked and knew what she was going to see. Hands shaking, she opened it and pulled out her ID: She remembered looking like that – like that woman in the picture, but she didn’t feel like her. Her date of birth was clearly printed on her driver’s license: April 16 1972.

She ran into the house, with her ID in her hand, crossing through the eerie silence of the backyard, bumping the screen door open, and towards the calendar that hung above the dirty kitchen sink. Today’s date read May 22nd. She screamed and sank to the floor as her fear became reality. The year is 1984. She is 12 years old again.

Continue with: The Middle Part I

(#My500Words Day 23)


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