The dusty and fragile bookshelves were touched only by the obscure kiss of darkness and the room was painted only with a spec of moonlight. Unnoticeably, a black figure appeared in front of the decaying door, moving softly, flowing like the buoy in the wind. Her hair was messy, her thoughts were, too.
Like every night, she sneaked out, sat on the windowsill; a book tightly squeezed between her bony fingers. The forbidden title, the banned weapon – it speaks to her in an unknown language. Then, the pages turn, fly in the air: the world becomes blurry, disappears. The stars, the clouds, the rain: all devoured by a mighty opponent. The words that spun in her head scattered to paint new lands: so colourful, so free, and tranquil; the letters – the artists. An enslaving illusion.
And then, she is gone. Lost.
Lost. In the rhythmical sound of the ink's flow.
Lost. In the complex sonata of the author's wishes.
Lost. In the gentle arrangement of the editor's touch.
She is gone and wishes never to come back.
She is as gone, gone as the world; the bad and the good have vanished for what seemed eternity. They got lost in the bad and the good – of the other world that split from between the pages. She lost her dreams; she lost her hopes. All in the luring tornado from the other world. Her worries, anxieties - swept away by the careless wind of this other world. And quietly, they all left her body... Now, she was free to reach her full potential. She was her own independent person. She finally procured the peaceful heedlessness she always longed for.
And there she was: surfing the waves of her blues with abnormal ease; floating in the sea of sentiments, inhaling the sweet scent of fulfilment. Until her poor, poor façade crumbled into a million pieces. Reality flared back for the sweet revenge and stabbed right where it hurts the most: she saw the books, the most precious things in her entire world, being torn right in front of her. The view of scattered pages left her in a mental disarray, as if her own skin and limps were raptured - a harrowing agony. Face to face with her biggest fear.
A yell, a hit, a cry – heard only in that small room, far down the corridor. Too far to be helped. The mindless accusations, the desperate explanations, a baseless sentence. The enslaving illusion, the heedless state, the purgative tornado - that she was so addicted to - were convulsed by the fatherly storm. He hated rebels and (for him) reading fiction at night was a sin. In fact, sin so great that the sentence lasted a year. She lost her fresh breeze and became Sisyphus; she was banned from the waves and left in the infinite loop of isolation.
And now, once her best reality had been destroyed, she stills sneaks into the room and sits on the windowsill; air leaking from between her bony, bruised fingers.
But now, she looks at the world through the shredded book's pages.
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My GCSE story lol, although my one was more adapted to the question, can't remember it anymore.
YOU ARE READING
Addictions
Short StoryMy heart was poured, my tears were shed; for you I wrote the stories within. For you: my dear English teacher; and for you, my dear examiner; and oh, for you, my dearest 9.
