Hi, this is the beginning to a story that my sister is writing. She asked me to put it on here, so I could have your feed back.
Let us know if it is something that she should continue, or give up.
Give us a rating
1. amazing! please write more!
2. good. Keep it up.
3. It’s okay. It needs work.
4. Bad. You shouldn’t continue.
5. Horrible. Just stop!
here it is!
I was running out of energy. I couldn’t fight anymore. “Stop, I’m sorry! Stop!”
But the hand around my throat didn’t loosen, and the horrible, inevitable truth finally sank in. I was going to die. It didn’t matter that I had lived only seven years, or that if I died it wouldn’t help my mom: witch was the only reason I had come in to this room, or even the fact that I could never be able to tell my dad or brothers that I loved them one more time. None of this mattered to the unrelenting hand around my throat.
My struggles became more and more futile. I couldn’t fight this. I was just a little kid. I wanted my mom.
But of course that couldn’t happen because if that were the case she wouldn’t be lying on the floor in front of me: looking like a corpse.
Finally I stopped struggling all together and just before the blackness took me: I jerked awake.
Tears were streaming down my face, and I was gasping. My heart felt like it was gonna jump right out of my chest.
“Brookie?” I had never been so happy to hear that voice.
He sat next to me on the bed. “What’s wrong? I heard screaming. Was it another nightmare?”
“Yeah, it was.”
He took my hand. “You know they’re gone. They won’t come back. Mom was all they wanted?” His statement ended in a question. Maybe he was trying to convince himself that this was the truth.
“I know,” I said quietly. “It’s just a dream.” Somewhere inside of me though, I knew that it wasn’t true.
“Yeah,” he said, and I heard a note of skepticism creep in to his voice.
He didn’t believe it either. If only he knew what I did. If only he remembered that horrible night seven years ago. But of course he didn’t. He had only been two years old at the time.
Only I had been there to witness it. Only I had heard the words that the owner of the unrelenting hand had spoken just before I was taken by blackness: “Looks like we haven’t finished our job here.”
I still didn’t know what that meant, nor did I want to know. I was scared though. What ever the voice had meant: it wasn’t going to be good.
Was he referring to killing me, or my brothers? Was I not supposed to have come in that room, and so now they were angry? Was that even a threat? Or were they just trying to scare me?
Maybe my fear was pointless. Maybe nothing was coming for me.
“Brooke? Do you remember that night,” Chandler asked cutting in to my thoughts. I could hear the hesitation in his voice.
“Yes,” I said.
“Clearly? Like it could have happened yesterday?”