27 June 2012

Creative Writing - The Window

There it is, again, serving no purpose other than to taunt me and perplex my inner child. Who would design such a home with a circular window to a bedroom closet? Something tugged at my heart when I first discovered the window. Though odd as it is, it gives the closet an endearing quality.

The eeriness about the room doesn’t frighten me. I am accustomed to it, having been here before, gazing at the window to the closet. I climb into bed and lay my head on the pillow. It has been a long day for me and lying here in the dark, I cannot remember everything I did since I last slept. Starting another journey into the window, I remind myself this will not be a dream. This is real and what I am about to discover is real.

My eyes become heavy, though still watching the window. I am happy and relaxed. My body seeps into the mattress while my mind focuses on the closet. Slipping into a quiet slumber, my soul is sucked through the window and into the closet like a vacuum, pulling me from the confines of my bed. I envision my sheets flittering about in my absence. I am safe and floating.

In complete darkness, I feel a familiar presence again. It’s there in all my nightly journeys. I cannot see or feel, but my mind is alert. The presence beckons me and I follow, my mind free and at peace.

Something is different on this journey. I feel uneasy. Panic surfaces the further I follow this presence into the closet. Somewhat nostalgic, but the panic escalates. I feel something cold and I reach out, grabbing at the darkness, searching for the familiar presence. Then, there is the smell of burnt hair.

I open my eyes and remember. The excruciating pain forces memories of the accident. I am badly burned, probably disfigured. I see my husband. He is weeping. He sees I’m alert and approaches me in haste, “It’s going to be fine, and everything is going to be fine.” His eyes are swollen and red, but he doesn’t look at me. He reaches for the one hand of mine which is not bandaged.

I struggle to scream out for the doctors to let me die, watching the stern nurse come toward me, syringe in hand. How many days has it been? Four, five? If she gives me another shot, I’ll come back again, to this hellish nightmare. I say to her, “No more.” My lips could barely move through the tightly wrapped bandages about my chin and jaw.

“It’s for the pain,” she insists. The stone-like features of her face contort into a look of dismay. I cry in agony, but nobody seems to hear me. How many times will I gaze upon the window, I wonder in despair, trying desperately to block out the pain eating me alive.

How many trips back to reality will I encounter before I die? I should have died in my sleep. The effects of the morphine cause me to drift off as the tears stinging my burned cheeks fade away.

The presence welcomes me back as I slip into the darkness, floating. I see my closet. There it is, just where I left it. I smile to myself and watch the window for a few minutes before getting out of bed to begin my day. What shall I discover on this glorious day?


This was the first story I ever wrote and it's from one of my creative writing classes. The instructor gave us one criteria. The title of your story must be The Window. So, here it is! Please let me know what you think. I enjoy feedback, good or bad. I'm just happy you got to stop by and see me.

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