Scraps, A book of scribbles

The Grey - Short Story Begining

Assignment: Write a story beginning based off a prompt given below. You may make minor changes.

My prompt - Irene gripped her mom's hand harder as they walked through the doors of the imposing gray building. Her mom had promised her they'd never have to come here again, but...

***

I grip my mother's hand, jumping at the click of the door behind us. No, no, no, I think, trying frantically to stop the fear rising in my chest. Her eyes meet mine, and the look of betrayal in them must be more than she can take. She makes a pained expression and shifts her gaze away from me.

I look around. Nothing about the place has changed. The grey stone floor still bears the mark of my last visit. A black streak, tracing a jagged scar from one end of the room to the other. The memory of flame, scorched into my mind like lightning on the tile.

My breathing quickens. She promised me. She promised me, never again.

The chiseled stone foyer is taller than it is wide, giving an impression of airy detachment. I can't see any benefits from it's height, besides intimidation of course. From the distant ceiling, two white lights hang on thick metal chains. Their light, though ominous, is not ancient and candle-like as one might expect. Instead, they shine cold and artificial, giving the room an eerie glow.

I'm grateful for the sound of my mother's shoes, tapping rhythmically with each footstep. Their droning melody, so constant, so predictable. It's something I can always fall back on, one foot in front of the other. I wince. The pain would be so much sharper in silence.

"It's not forever, Kinsey," my mother says, her voice stiff and defensive.

"You don't know that."

She doesn't meet my eyes.

We don't talk after that. The time for words is long gone now. Don't get me wrong, there was plenty of tear-soaked pleading when my mom first received the call. I still remember it, though the memory fades every day. I was sitting on my porch, enjoying the last rays of summer sun as they glinted in the distance. My hands cupped a little bowl of strawberry ice cream, my favorite.

The door crashed open. I still remember the screech of its hinges, shocking me out of my sugar-filled stupor. I still remember the look on my mom's face, clouded with worry as she told me the news.

They found out. They were coming for me.

"Kinsey Davidson?" The man's gravely voice shocks me back to reality. Was he always here? I didn't hear him enter.

"Kinsey Davidson," he repeats, more forcefully this time. I nod, though it takes all my strength to do so.

"Are you ready?"

The question hangs in the air between us. Am I ready?

"Of course," I lie.