I slowly walked towards the small wooden door. My small Mary Janes made little or no sound as I neared closer. My mother had just told me to feed her, and I was doing so, for she would never do it herself. As I reached for the glass door k**b, a tingling feeling shot up my arm and through my whole body.I became stiff and petrified. But, this was the same feeling that overcame me everytime.I took a deep breath and opened the door, slowly, so that it wouldn’t make the slightest sound. I turned to face her, hunched over on the same old, oak bed and thrashed matress. She was nearly 13 yrs. older than me, but still lived with us and there was a reason, a frightening reason. Even though we heard her screeching cries for help, all through the night , we never helped her, never. I looked straight into her bloodshot eyes, and she met mine. She seemed to be staring straight into my soul. It was unsettling, I soon looked away. I paced towards the rickety bed, and studied her.
The same protruding bones, stretching her skin out to its near extent. The same crooked hands that seemed to be clenching something. I always looked at her in such horror and disgust, but she never said a word, for she couldn’t. Her long, jagged fingernails cut the palms of her hands, which had become raw and swollen. You could see the old, dry blood sitting there, peeling off, and crumpling onto the bed frame. It smelt as though a thousand corpse’s had been rotting in that room for million’s of years, and it was so cold, I felt as though I was in a freezer!
Once I reached the foot of her bed, I quickly set the bowl of split pea soup on the ground and began towards the door. I knew she couldn’t feed herself, but I didn’t care, I was so frightened and scared. As I reached the door, my mothers words echoed into the deep, depths of my mind. “If you don’t feed her ill beat you, and I mean it, this time, I mean it!" Memories of the wooden pole she had used to bash my head in when I was a "bad girl" came swarming back into my head. I raised my left hand to the top of my forehead, and felt where the bloody wound had once been. I turned around, and slowly paced towards the edge of the bed. As I approached it , I reached into the top left pocket of my flower-printed summer dress and plucked out a small, wooden ladle. I bent down and dug it into the bowl, then out again. The distasteful smell wafted from it, and made it’s way into my nostrils. I slowly walked over to her, the soup swishing this way, and that onto the dry, wood floor. As the spoon neared her mouth, she began to scream in agonizing pain. It reached the tip of...
her tongue, she tried to swallow it as huge droplets hit the matress and seeped through. Unable to consume it, she began to vomit profusely, every which way. It would usually sit there for weeks, rotting like an, old, mangled corpse, for I was always to afraid to get to very near to her . I usually waited until my mother nearly forced me to clean the putrid mess up. I look at her with a blank stare, emptiness. I knew she was my sister, but did I love her? I didn’t know. How COULD you love someone so disgusting and horrible looking? In a way I felt sorrowful, but in a sick way, I wonderfully enjoyed the night she died......
this is just the prologue, be nice, but be truthful, im only 13. if u say its good ill continue:D
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+how can u get a book published?
section1.-beginning(continued)-
I had always wondered what was wrong with my sister, ever since I was a little girl. I would look up at my mother with the same coy expression, every time, asking ,"What's wrong with Lia?"She would simply come down to my level and scream into my ear,"Nothing,now go feed her!"I hardly remember the first moment of having to go into that dimly lit basement and seeing her nausiating body curled up on that beat up matress. I’m not much older now, only eleven, im used to stepping into that room and feeding her.Its just that I always thought she would be DEAD by now,why wont she just die all ready?! Its not that I wish for this ALL the time,sometimes I feel bad for her. Or DO I ? This question runs through my mind every second of every day. Maybe I DON'T feel bad for her. Maybe I don't feel bad for her at all.
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