I had to write this for a class in school, and I'm not quite happy with the review I got (only 2 comments on 12 pages), so I was hoping some of you guys could help me out. This is the first part of Masterpiece, which will be the first of three related short stories, all contributing to a whole.
Anyway, please comment and help me make it better!
Nigha walked slowly toward Kate’s house, the rain feeling like a hissing afterthought. She couldn’t take her eyes off the door, and she walked up the gravel drive and onto the porch. Closing her eyes, afraid it wouldn’t work again, Nigha held her breath and walked through the door.
Her eyes opened and she saw the inside of her best friend’s house. It was dark inside, but she could see well enough. She exhaled in relief at the familiar room, the sofa in the corner, the TV above the brick fireplace, the moonlight coming in through the curtains. Nigha could even smell the familiar scent of Kate’s living room.
Nigha walked past the living room to the staircase just around the wall. She paused at the bottom for a moment, and just stared up. Knowing she couldn’t turn back but being afraid to go on wasn’t easy. She set her mind and lifted her chin slightly, and started up the stairs.
The toilet flushed down the hall and Nigha wavered. She sped up after that and walked down the hallway until she stood in front of Kate’s door. Everything else seemed dark and out of focus besides Kate’s door. Nigha clamped her eyes shut and took a step into the door. She passed right through the wood door and held her breath as she emerged into Kate’s room. Kate was just climbing back into bed, more than half asleep, obviously having been the one who flushed the toilet.
She took a shaky breath which Kate didn’t seem to hear, and said, “Kate.”
Kate whirled around in bed, now clearly awake. Her eyes widened and her hand flew to her mouth, stifling a tiny scream. Nigha looked down at herself and saw her opened jacket and the three bloodstains on her white shirt. Her eyes widened and she instantly whipped the jacket closed. “Kate, we need to talk,” she said quickly.
“Nigha, oh my God, Nigha!” Kate cried, horrified. She stood off her bed and walked to Nigha, one hand outstretched as if to touch her, the other over her mouth. Her expression was one of horror and shock. “What happened to you?” she whispered, unable to muster anything louder.
“Kate, calm down. I’m… look, I have to talk to you,” Nigha said quickly, crossing her arms over her stomach to keep her jacket closed over the blood. “It’s not as simple as you think.”
“You walked through the door, Nigha! No, this I get that this is not what I think. But I don’t know what to think. What are you…? They told me… you’re parents are worried sick!” she finally managed. “They said you’re missing. You vanished last night. You….”
“Kate, just stop for a minute. I have something important to tell you. But this might take awhile…”
I got a black rose the day I died. It wasn’t what you might think; it wasn’t my soul I lost. I mean it quite literally—my life ended. And all because I let my guard down around a charismatic psychopath.
I’d gotten a letter in the mail one day, asking me to come to the Cobb Bridge after dark on Friday. I wasn’t sure what to make of it at first, but I was stupid and curious, so I held on to it.
The next morning, when I climbed out of bed and went to open my curtains, I saw a rose the color of blood on fire, sitting on my windowsill just beyond the glass. And when I got home from school on Thursday, there was a perfect white rose resting on the sill, waiting for me to see it.
Intrigued and in a sort of awe, I added it to the smooth wooden vase on my desk. I picked up the letter from its place next to the vase, as if I wanted to remind myself this was all actually happening and the letter was real. A chill ran up my spine as I read it.
On Friday night, sneak out of your house and meet me at Cobb Bridge. I’ve wanted to meet you for a long time now, so I’m going to give you this before I change my mind. Don’t let anyone know you’re coming.
-J
By now, I was extremely curious. No guy had ever gone to all this trouble to ask me out or tell me he liked me. I really wanted to meet the mysterious guy who’d been sending me roses.
That night, I fell asleep staring at them, my mind slowly drifting off to a place of old-fashioned chivalry and romance. I beat the sun up that morning, and climbed out of bed, nervous excitement growing inside me. I made a beeline straight for the windowsill, my bare feet padding against the cold floorboards with barely a sound. Friday had finally come.
I flung open my window saw a black rose. It was the most devastatingly beautiful thing I’d ever seen, with waxy black petals and a deep green stem. And just under my window, written in the soft, damp dirt, were two words that made the hairs on my arms stand on end for reasons I didn’t know at the time.
Can’t wait.
The day seemed to drag on endlessly. I kept looking at the clock, then the window, then back to the clock. I spent my classes doodling and struggling to pay attention, which was hard, since I was nearly giddy with anticipation. Had I known then it would’ve been my last day in class, I might’ve socialized more, or even listened to the teacher.
Kate could tell I was preoccupied, and she prodded me about it all through lunch. “C’mon, Ny, please,” she begged. Her blue eyes were twinkling with mischievous hope.
I just grinned and shook my head. “It’s a secret. But I’ll tell you on Monday,” I said, getting all my things together and slinging my backpack over my shoulders. Lunch was almost over, so I started walking to the trashcan to dump my trash.
Kate pouted as she followed me over. “You’re no fun. Okay, I’m gonna guess then. Let me think…. Well, it’s you, so it can’t be a guy… and it’s obviously good, so… ooh! I got it! Did your parents finally give in to get a dog?” she rambled, her eyes lighting up as she spoke, as though she just figured it out.
I laughed and looked her dead in the eye with a grin. “Kate, if my parents ever let me have a dog, I wouldn’t wait to tell you,” I said.
She sighed. “True…. Come on, you gotta tell me!” She’d resorted back to begging, and I wasn’t surprised. “I’ll buy you lunch on Monday,” she tried.
I considered it, but then remembered what the note said: don’t let anyone know you’re coming. “Monday. Tomorrow, if you come over,” I said.
“Meanie. Just know I’ll be there before noon,” Kate said.
“I figured,” I said, unable to mask my amusement. “Love you. Mean it!” I called as she walked off, obviously sulking. I guess I was in a better mood than I should’ve been, but the fact that the person who wrote me the letter could be some stalker creep never crossed my mind.
I left school and listened to the radio while my mom drove me home. I couldn’t wait until I turned sixteen so I could drive myself to school. That would make life so much simpler, I thought with a sigh. Then I wouldn’t have to sit there quietly and pretend nothing was on my mind. Not that I wanted to talk about it at the time anyway, but it just seemed to make everything more awkward for me.
“Anything wrong, Nigha?” Mom asked, glancing at me briefly.
I shook my head. “I’m fine. Just tired,” I lied. It was a convincing lie, because I was always tired after school. But today, I was too excited to be tired, even though I didn’t dare show it. I couldn’t let her think anything was wrong, because then, knowing my mom, she’d get all weird and pushy.
I leaned my head against the window and tried to picture the guy I’d be meeting. What will he be like? I wondered. Tall, dark and handsome? A cute, charming blond? Nothing seemed quite right, so eventually I gave up trying. Wouldn’t it be ironic, I thought, if he was actually someone I knew.
Nighttime couldn’t come fast enough as far as I was concerned. The sun seemed to drag itself down slowly, antagonizing me on purpose. I barely had an appetite, and you wouldn’t believe how unappetizing my mom’s broccoli casserole looked and smelled. And it tasted worse than puke, in my opinion. I picked at it, but never actually ate any of it.
“Nigha, you not hungry?” my mom asked. “You’re not sick, are you?”
“I’m fine, mom. Just not a fan,” I said, glancing down at my heap of green and yellow mush. God, if my mom never cooks dinner again, it would be too soon. She’d let me cook most nights, since I could at least manage to make something edible. The only thing she’d ever make is baby-barf broccoli casserole.
“Just eat it,” she said with a sigh. But how could she say that when she wasn’t even eating it? She claimed it wasn’t good for her cholesterol and was having some soup instead. And that smelled good, despite the stench coming off the casserole.
Not fair, I thought angrily. I left the table and took my plate to the kitchen, dumping about a pound of the gunk into the trashcan. “I’m going to bed,” I said, heading directly to my room. I closed the door and looked at the roses. Tonight, I get to meet you.
I propped myself up with pillows against the wall and opened a book. I couldn’t really focus on the words and ended up turning on the radio. Later, I found it ironic that the song playing was “Don’t Take the Girl,” but at the time, staring up at my black ceiling, it was just comfortable background noise.
I waited until about eleven, when I knew my parents were asleep and it was dark enough out. I slid out of bed and grabbed my black jacket, my socks muffling any sound I made. I grabbed my sneakers from their place by my door, and carried them out with me. I had to be careful, because I didn’t want to make the floorboards creak and wake my parents up. In the dark, I nearly tripped over a lump in the carpet, but I managed to stumble in silence.
I slowly unlocked and opened the heavy door, creeping outside without a sound. As soon as I closed the door behind me, I slid into my sneakers and surveyed the yard. Nothing moved. It was almost as if the entire yard was holding its breath, waiting for me to run.
I was probably running on adrenaline when I took off across the yard, because I’m not much of a runner. And it showed when I slowed down, breathing hard, as I left the neighborhood behind me.
Switching to an easy pace, I walked through the darkened town. The streetlights and neon signs flickered and flashed in protest to the late hours. I passed a dark Long John Silvers’ and turned down the next street. The lights grew dim as I walked down the gravelly road. Stones crunched beneath my feet. For some reason I felt nervous, as if someone was watching me. I tried not to be stupid and paranoid, but I started walking a bit faster anyway.
Soon the bridge came into view, and I slowed my pace. Even in the dark, I could make out the shapes. It arched gently out of the ground above the riverbed, like a cat waking from an all day power-nap. A bench rested lazily at the very peak overlooking the river. It was a place where late-night lovers would often sit and talk, or just enjoy the recklessness of sneaking out to see each other. I guess it was ironic enough that he called me there, but at the time, I just thought he was being romantic. The trees hanging along the road cradled the moon in a leafy embrace. I barely noticed the lack of stars.
I was anxious and nervous, and the closer I got, the worse the feeling got. At first, I didn’t see him, and my heart probably skipped a beat somewhere in there out of fear at him standing me up. But a moment later, I saw a silhouette walk up the opposite side of the bridge and lean against the railing.
Taking a shaky breath, I continued towards the bridge, attempting to hold my head high and appear braver than I felt. He must’ve noticed me coming, because even in the moonlight, I could see him raise a hand and wave at me. From a distance, this guy was making my heart skip. Or maybe that was uncertainty.
Now that he saw me, I jogged up to the bridge, oblivious to practically everything around me. Had I been paying attention, I might have noticed the moon glittering off the river, or the trees blowing in a breeze I couldn’t feel, or maybe even the one other couple walking past the mystery man I’d come to meet. But I didn’t
What I did notice, however, was every darkened detail of the mystery man; his shaggy hair hanging in his eyes, his athletic frame leaning easily against the railing, hands in the pockets of his jeans. It was hard to tell how tall he was in that position, but he was obviously at least a few inches taller than I was.
I went right up beside him and rested my elbows on the edge of the bridge, staring over the river. I tried to act casual, the complete opposite to how I felt. My emotions were whipping up a hurricane inside.
Gender:
Points: 3189
Reviews: 27