Dear Reader,
I pace this long, white hallway that I call hope. With every step I take, an echo protrudes out of the soles of my shoes. The sound of my footsteps trails me for as long as I walk, and along with it, there is a flickering fluorescent glow from the old ceiling lights, which seem to turn the section of the hallway black as soon as I pass it. I always glance straight ahead, with a natural grimace, staring past the white walls and ceiling, which are as pristine as the white floors. My clothes are all white as well. They feel like sandpaper attached to my limbs, and they are horrid looking too. Of course, it's not like anyone can see me, as the hallways are as empty as a promise. However, I still worry I am being mocked, or perhaps worse, judged, from some far, fictional place. That feeling one feels when they believe they are being judged is one of the most wretched feelings.
In my school days, I didn’t have to worry about that, as I used to be the most gorgeous girl in town. Boys would attempt to woo me, while girls would try to be me. When I would meet a fellow's glance, he would proceed to either fall over himself like his shoes were tied together, or even stranger, he would freeze and his eyes would glaze over as if I had snakes coiled in my hair. I wouldn't let the constant flattery go to my head, even though it may have been tempting.
From those streams of admirers, there was only one boy with whom I decided to associate. He was tall and handsome, calm and collected, always wearing a grin with two crooked front teeth. Usually, he was a contrarian speaker, which always seemed to start a flame within me. Yet, I still adored him and his presence, and I suppose he adored me and mine too. But, that feeling would not last - even so, does anything? I think I got excited by the way he touched my hand when we walked and the way he would gaze into my eyes with glittering jewels, since only a month after we started going steady, my crystal conscience formed a sinister idea. My parents were always home, and I knew that we could never be alone as long as they were around. So, rather brashly, I executed them in two swift motions with my father’s antique bayonet. I surmised that if they were gone, I could bring my beau home and we could finally be alone.
However, when I took him home and showed him the palace I lived in, his demeanor altered from his trademark crooked grin into a sultry smile. At that moment, he began to make remarks about the bedroom, and he made passes at the hems of my gown. I refused all of his propositions, straightening my dress with my careful hands, down further past my knees with every remark he made. He knew that my father and mother were both “out” that night, and he reckoned that I was inviting him over for an illicit meeting with only him and me. I suppose that was my intention at first, but after he arrived, I became increasingly hesitant and nervous about going any further than a tranquil, romantic evening. So, I continued to veer the encounter into a purer place, for the more he made passes at me, the more hesitant I became, while we continued to eat a fine meal, which I had toiled all day to make. I tried to start a conversation, yet he answered each remark I made with somewhat of a curt nod or at most, a one-word response. At that moment, I lost faith in my attempt at a romantic dinner, and I told him to leave at once. To him, the proposition was malicious, for he still believed the night would venture into uncharted territory. The mere act of saying goodbye must have been too hard for him since before he left through the large, oak doors, he needed to do one last thing. He ran to my father's study even though I had made him aware that the room was verboten, and he trounced through the house, tripping over antique stools and ornate carpets. When he returned, I remained standing by the cold dinner, my eyes fixated on him, while my feet tapped softly on the wood floor. Then, I saw in his grasp the glistening barrel of irony: he had found my father’s bayonet.
He looked at me with a grimace, which I had never seen cover his face, before he began toward me at a speeding saunter. He wasn't running to me, nor was he on his tiptoes, but he was in fact nearing me, and I merely stood by the cold dinner that still sat at the table. When he finally reached me, I accepted defeat, as he began to knock me unconscious, before he shot me three times in the chest. Then, he proceeded to carry out fiendish acts on my body, which I insisted on never doing when I was still living. Afterward, he left in a hurry, fumbling at his car keys, his foot shaking as he drove down the road. On his way out of town, karma must have caught up with him, as a truck came rushing full speed toward him, killing him with brute force.
Now, I walk this white hallway, leading to a whiter land which I am told will set me free. But, if he met the same fate as me, would he not be there too? How could I be free if he still walked on the same tiles as me? I know at last when I reach the end of this hall, we will meet again, since the day before I began this journey, I took the life of my mother and father, and the gates of nefariousness are left for those of us who sunk deep into the trenches of blasphemy. And, until I reach those dark gates, I will continue to pace these pearl halls where I am the only resident, for as long as I walk here, I will never be equivalent to the man with the crooked smile. Because, I suppose, in the end, no matter our circumstances, we're all just bones in the ground. And beyond the end, our souls are carried to the place that suits us, not the one we covet.
Sincerely,
A Contrite Sinner
I pace this long, white hallway that I call hope. With every step I take, an echo protrudes out of the soles of my shoes. The sound of my footsteps trails me for as long as I walk, and along with it, there is a flickering fluorescent glow from the old ceiling lights, which seem to turn the section of the hallway black as soon as I pass it. I always glance straight ahead, with a natural grimace, staring past the white walls and ceiling, which are as pristine as the white floors. My clothes are all white as well. They feel like sandpaper attached to my limbs, and they are horrid looking too. Of course, it's not like anyone can see me, as the hallways are as empty as a promise. However, I still worry I am being mocked, or perhaps worse, judged, from some far, fictional place. That feeling one feels when they believe they are being judged is one of the most wretched feelings.
In my school days, I didn’t have to worry about that, as I used to be the most gorgeous girl in town. Boys would attempt to woo me, while girls would try to be me. When I would meet a fellow's glance, he would proceed to either fall over himself like his shoes were tied together, or even stranger, he would freeze and his eyes would glaze over as if I had snakes coiled in my hair. I wouldn't let the constant flattery go to my head, even though it may have been tempting.
From those streams of admirers, there was only one boy with whom I decided to associate. He was tall and handsome, calm and collected, always wearing a grin with two crooked front teeth. Usually, he was a contrarian speaker, which always seemed to start a flame within me. Yet, I still adored him and his presence, and I suppose he adored me and mine too. But, that feeling would not last - even so, does anything? I think I got excited by the way he touched my hand when we walked and the way he would gaze into my eyes with glittering jewels, since only a month after we started going steady, my crystal conscience formed a sinister idea. My parents were always home, and I knew that we could never be alone as long as they were around. So, rather brashly, I executed them in two swift motions with my father’s antique bayonet. I surmised that if they were gone, I could bring my beau home and we could finally be alone.
However, when I took him home and showed him the palace I lived in, his demeanor altered from his trademark crooked grin into a sultry smile. At that moment, he began to make remarks about the bedroom, and he made passes at the hems of my gown. I refused all of his propositions, straightening my dress with my careful hands, down further past my knees with every remark he made. He knew that my father and mother were both “out” that night, and he reckoned that I was inviting him over for an illicit meeting with only him and me. I suppose that was my intention at first, but after he arrived, I became increasingly hesitant and nervous about going any further than a tranquil, romantic evening. So, I continued to veer the encounter into a purer place, for the more he made passes at me, the more hesitant I became, while we continued to eat a fine meal, which I had toiled all day to make. I tried to start a conversation, yet he answered each remark I made with somewhat of a curt nod or at most, a one-word response. At that moment, I lost faith in my attempt at a romantic dinner, and I told him to leave at once. To him, the proposition was malicious, for he still believed the night would venture into uncharted territory. The mere act of saying goodbye must have been too hard for him since before he left through the large, oak doors, he needed to do one last thing. He ran to my father's study even though I had made him aware that the room was verboten, and he trounced through the house, tripping over antique stools and ornate carpets. When he returned, I remained standing by the cold dinner, my eyes fixated on him, while my feet tapped softly on the wood floor. Then, I saw in his grasp the glistening barrel of irony: he had found my father’s bayonet.
He looked at me with a grimace, which I had never seen cover his face, before he began toward me at a speeding saunter. He wasn't running to me, nor was he on his tiptoes, but he was in fact nearing me, and I merely stood by the cold dinner that still sat at the table. When he finally reached me, I accepted defeat, as he began to knock me unconscious, before he shot me three times in the chest. Then, he proceeded to carry out fiendish acts on my body, which I insisted on never doing when I was still living. Afterward, he left in a hurry, fumbling at his car keys, his foot shaking as he drove down the road. On his way out of town, karma must have caught up with him, as a truck came rushing full speed toward him, killing him with brute force.
Now, I walk this white hallway, leading to a whiter land which I am told will set me free. But, if he met the same fate as me, would he not be there too? How could I be free if he still walked on the same tiles as me? I know at last when I reach the end of this hall, we will meet again, since the day before I began this journey, I took the life of my mother and father, and the gates of nefariousness are left for those of us who sunk deep into the trenches of blasphemy. And, until I reach those dark gates, I will continue to pace these pearl halls where I am the only resident, for as long as I walk here, I will never be equivalent to the man with the crooked smile. Because, I suppose, in the end, no matter our circumstances, we're all just bones in the ground. And beyond the end, our souls are carried to the place that suits us, not the one we covet.
Sincerely,
A Contrite Sinner