STORY STARTER

That old lady always wears a red scarflette around her wrist, today we found out why…

Red

That old lady

Hair white

Like snow

Eyes green

Like grass

Wears all black

Long flowing black skirts

Black collated skirts with ruffles

Black nail polish

Black lipstick

All black

Contrast against her deathly pale skin

Like burnt ashes

Sickly

Unnerving

High and sharp cheekbones

Hollow

Like she doesn’t eat enough

Her frame thin

Skinny

Lank

Like she starves

Maybe she does


Her house

Filled with burgundy roses

Deep red

Like wine

Like the wine she drinks every night

Deep red wine

Sometimes she asks others to drink

In silence

Others

Mostly

She drinks alone

In her room

Without a word


She’s mad

Or maybe a bit sad

Both could be true

All at once

She makes outrageous demands

Others despise her

But

Maybe

She despises herself more

The things she’s done

Blood drips

Onto the furniture

Maybe that’s why there are no longer white chairs

Or couches

Or even bedding

To hide it

To hide what she does

To herself


She always frowns

With disdain

Or maybe not

Her eyes are lidded

Like she’s looking down

On others perhaps

Or because she can’t bare to meet others eyes

Maybe it’s regret

Maybe something else

Who knows

In the end

Maybe even she doesn’t


That little scarf

The only color

Red

Like blood

Like wine

Like roses

Contrasts against her skin

And the clothing she wears

Every day

She wears it every day

Even in her sleep

Makes you wonder

Why


January 12th

She leaves

Her house

Every year

She leaves

To the graveyard

And cries

And cries

And cries

Burgundy roses in hand

Then on the grave

She dabs her eyes

With a little black handkerchief

Then leaves

And drinks again

All alone

In her room


She doesn’t speak

To anyone

No friends

No family

Only self loathing

Complete isolation

Only maids

And butlers

Whom she refuses to interact

All except one

A young butler

He looks kind of like

That man in the image she always carries

Who is that

No one knows

Maybe a friend

Maybe family

Maybe a lover

Who knows

She does

She speaks to the image

Ever so often

When she thinks no one is watching


That little red scarf

On her wrist

Covers up scars

From what

From herself

She hates herself

It’s evident

The little red scarf

Is it naturally red

Or

Is it from something else


August 3rd

She sings happy birthday

But not for herself

For who

Her birthday is long gone

She refuses to celebrate

August 3rd

She visits the grave every year

And leaves a box

A little box

Wrapped in red

The next day

She goes back

And when she sees it’s gone

She seems fufilled

Doesn’t she realize

It’s a theif

Dead in the night

Maybe

But still

She holds out hope


She refuses to go near the ocean

Despite living on the beach

It scares her

Like she sees a ghost

Maybe she does

How could anyone know

What she is going through

And what is haunting her


Sometimes

She wakes up

And reaches out screaming

She says

That sometimes

She feels like she’s drowning

Then mutters about

How she should have

Like she feels guilty

Maybe

Maybe she does

Maybe that’s why she won’t go to the ocean


The old lady is senile

She’s losing her ability to speak

To remember

But sometimes

She sobs silently

Into her pillow

During the night


Some days

She can’t speak

Her eyes gloss over

Glassy

Unalert

Other times

She looks into the sky

Like she’s haunted by something

Like she’s scared

Sometimes

She prays

Before bed

And asks for death


She did it

She took too many pain killers

On purpose

Then laid down

And went to sleep

And never woke up

Next to her bed

Was a note

That said

To give all of her money

To children’s hospitals

For her son

Who she could not save

She decided

That with her fortune

She would save

Other peoples children

So they could be happy


At her funeral

There was someone

Her sister

Who told a speech

About her

Said

That the ladies child

Her son

Died

On the beach

Trying to save a little girl

From a shark attack

And both of them died

The lady

She tried to stop him

From going out and helping the girl

But he wouldn’t listen

And the lady

Feels forever guilty

For not saving her son


All that was left

Was his hand

Where he wore a little white scarf

That his dad gave him

Before he died

The little white scarf

Became red

Stained with his blood

Red was his favorite color

And it was the old lady’s

She never forgave herself

For what happened

But no matter what

I hope her soul rests in peace

And is reunited with her son

Comments 1
Loading...