Veryyyy short story for English assignment.
“Love does not begin and end the way we seem to think it does. Love is a battle, love is a war.” - James A. Baldwin
Breathing heavily, I glance down at the moving landscape. Cars zoom by; ants in assorted colours each scurrying away. The city of New York is beautiful from up here. Really, really beautiful. And if I were to die here, at this precise moment in time, I would die a happy man. I look behind me, a precautionary measure for what I am about to accomplish. My eyes glaze over once more, before streaming into overwhelming tears. I’m finding everything hard to take in. The sky seemingly acknowledges my sorrow, battering the cold stone floor with heavy rain. The once mesmerising colours of the bustling cars and night-lit buildings now appear as smudges, stains in an otherwise pure world. Peering down once more at the cars and concrete below, my legs tremble, shaking violently. I steady myself; after all, a send off should brim with composure. My mother, may she rest in peace, had always stuck by a single motto, one which was currently haunting me: “Only the bravest of human, the most foolish of fools and the most neglected of outsiders would dare take their own life on their own accord”. And yet, while I leap from the building, plummeting to my inevitable death, peaceful at last, I am not sure which type of man I am.
I crash out of the hotel door and race down the hallway. Heart beating. Heavy steps. Blood lines my every footprint, my every handprint, streaked across my face like a crimson scar. I curl up into a ball, hiding from the outside world. I wait. I wait. Conceding defeat, tears cascade out of my sore eyes, each flood more intense than the last. Time passes, it slows down, it speeds up, and yet here I lie, still. Shouts echo from my hotel room, each shriek ascending in volume. I take the hint. Running once more, sprinting, I bolt down the stairs and into the lobby. Well-built guards block the entrance to the hotel, perhaps notified of the event which has taken place. No time for reflection on my past mistakes. I think about my options; would I take the gambler’s option and throw myself out of those doors to the likelihood of dying in disgrace? Or, rather, would I throw myself off this building, dying as an outsider to the world? The answer seems obvious. I step calmly towards the lift, reach the top floor, and get out. I have stopped thinking altogether; I am but a passenger to my own body. I climb the ladder to reach the topmost part of the building; I am on the outside now, both physically and mentally. I draw the courage to walk towards the edge, towards my downfall. Breathing heavily, I glance down at the moving landscape.
I drop the tulips. The wine follows after, smashing into a million pieces, smearing the carpet. My hands are shaking. And before I know it, they’re lurching forward, grabbing hold of the neck of my wife. She mutters obscenities at me, slapping and clawing at my wrist. I instinctively let go of her, tending to my hand, giving her time to make her escape. Yet she chooses to attack me, putting all her weight through my body; my ankle bursts with pain. There is fire in her eyes, a real determination to have her way, a childish need to make me stay with her. I cry in agony as she throws a coffee table into my stomach. I shield myself as she picks up the coffee table once more, darting away before she brings it down upon me. The momentum of the throw sends her hurtling to the floor, giving me enough time to run to the bathroom, locking the door as I do so. Panic sets in. I am unsure what to do; my wife will be attempting to reach me, her lust for blood only matched by her undying love for me. I know what I have to do. I open the door, and immediately, like a ravenous dog, she barges her way in. I grasp her by the head, oblivious to her shrieks, before smashing it into the sink, over and over and over. Blood drapes along the wall, splats across my face, engulfs my hands and feet. I shake all over. Yet this is not the time to regret actions. Sprinting out of the bathroom, I take one last look at my bloodied wife. I have good faith that whatever actions she took, she did out of love rather than hatred. I crash out of the hotel door and race down the hallway. Heart beating. Heavy steps.
It has been a long day. Work has consumed my free time, and the sunlight has lingered long enough. I smile myself; buzzing with excitement over seeing the look on my wife’s face when I arrive to her, with tulips and wine at the ready. 17 years of marriage, and yet a lifetime still ahead of us, I am enjoying the excellence of life, if I do say so myself. Tomorrow is a day where I do not carry the burden of work; instead, I have arranged to visit Broadway. I enter the hotel before taking the lift, and making my way to my room. Our room. Opening the door, I am greeted with silence. “Sarah...Sarah, hello?” No answer. I immediately dash into our bedroom, fearing that she has been hurt in some way, fearing the worst. Instead, a man, naked but for a towel wrapped around his waist, bolts out of the room. I am too stunned to react. Sarah, looking up at me guiltily, has tears running down her eyes. “I don’t know why, Steven. I really don’t. Please don’t hate me,” she begs, hopelessness setting in. “Please don’t Steven, please, please, please. I love you, Steven. I love you so much.” I am unable to speak, unable to react to what she is saying. “Don’t leave. We can still be happy together.. I love you”. All I am able to do is back out of the doorway with a solemn face. “DON’T LEAVE, STEVEN.” She screams, venom lacing her voice. “Leaving will be the death of me.” Something clicks. With those words, something clicks, and bubbles of rage which were surfacing before are now beginning to bubble over. I drop the tulips. The wine follows after, smashing into a million pieces, smearing the carpet. My hands are shaking.
“Love does not begin and end the way we seem to think it does. Love is a battle, love is a war.” - James A. Baldwin
Breathing heavily, I glance down at the moving landscape. Cars zoom by; ants in assorted colours each scurrying away. The city of New York is beautiful from up here. Really, really beautiful. And if I were to die here, at this precise moment in time, I would die a happy man. I look behind me, a precautionary measure for what I am about to accomplish. My eyes glaze over once more, before streaming into overwhelming tears. I’m finding everything hard to take in. The sky seemingly acknowledges my sorrow, battering the cold stone floor with heavy rain. The once mesmerising colours of the bustling cars and night-lit buildings now appear as smudges, stains in an otherwise pure world. Peering down once more at the cars and concrete below, my legs tremble, shaking violently. I steady myself; after all, a send off should brim with composure. My mother, may she rest in peace, had always stuck by a single motto, one which was currently haunting me: “Only the bravest of human, the most foolish of fools and the most neglected of outsiders would dare take their own life on their own accord”. And yet, while I leap from the building, plummeting to my inevitable death, peaceful at last, I am not sure which type of man I am.
I crash out of the hotel door and race down the hallway. Heart beating. Heavy steps. Blood lines my every footprint, my every handprint, streaked across my face like a crimson scar. I curl up into a ball, hiding from the outside world. I wait. I wait. Conceding defeat, tears cascade out of my sore eyes, each flood more intense than the last. Time passes, it slows down, it speeds up, and yet here I lie, still. Shouts echo from my hotel room, each shriek ascending in volume. I take the hint. Running once more, sprinting, I bolt down the stairs and into the lobby. Well-built guards block the entrance to the hotel, perhaps notified of the event which has taken place. No time for reflection on my past mistakes. I think about my options; would I take the gambler’s option and throw myself out of those doors to the likelihood of dying in disgrace? Or, rather, would I throw myself off this building, dying as an outsider to the world? The answer seems obvious. I step calmly towards the lift, reach the top floor, and get out. I have stopped thinking altogether; I am but a passenger to my own body. I climb the ladder to reach the topmost part of the building; I am on the outside now, both physically and mentally. I draw the courage to walk towards the edge, towards my downfall. Breathing heavily, I glance down at the moving landscape.
I drop the tulips. The wine follows after, smashing into a million pieces, smearing the carpet. My hands are shaking. And before I know it, they’re lurching forward, grabbing hold of the neck of my wife. She mutters obscenities at me, slapping and clawing at my wrist. I instinctively let go of her, tending to my hand, giving her time to make her escape. Yet she chooses to attack me, putting all her weight through my body; my ankle bursts with pain. There is fire in her eyes, a real determination to have her way, a childish need to make me stay with her. I cry in agony as she throws a coffee table into my stomach. I shield myself as she picks up the coffee table once more, darting away before she brings it down upon me. The momentum of the throw sends her hurtling to the floor, giving me enough time to run to the bathroom, locking the door as I do so. Panic sets in. I am unsure what to do; my wife will be attempting to reach me, her lust for blood only matched by her undying love for me. I know what I have to do. I open the door, and immediately, like a ravenous dog, she barges her way in. I grasp her by the head, oblivious to her shrieks, before smashing it into the sink, over and over and over. Blood drapes along the wall, splats across my face, engulfs my hands and feet. I shake all over. Yet this is not the time to regret actions. Sprinting out of the bathroom, I take one last look at my bloodied wife. I have good faith that whatever actions she took, she did out of love rather than hatred. I crash out of the hotel door and race down the hallway. Heart beating. Heavy steps.
It has been a long day. Work has consumed my free time, and the sunlight has lingered long enough. I smile myself; buzzing with excitement over seeing the look on my wife’s face when I arrive to her, with tulips and wine at the ready. 17 years of marriage, and yet a lifetime still ahead of us, I am enjoying the excellence of life, if I do say so myself. Tomorrow is a day where I do not carry the burden of work; instead, I have arranged to visit Broadway. I enter the hotel before taking the lift, and making my way to my room. Our room. Opening the door, I am greeted with silence. “Sarah...Sarah, hello?” No answer. I immediately dash into our bedroom, fearing that she has been hurt in some way, fearing the worst. Instead, a man, naked but for a towel wrapped around his waist, bolts out of the room. I am too stunned to react. Sarah, looking up at me guiltily, has tears running down her eyes. “I don’t know why, Steven. I really don’t. Please don’t hate me,” she begs, hopelessness setting in. “Please don’t Steven, please, please, please. I love you, Steven. I love you so much.” I am unable to speak, unable to react to what she is saying. “Don’t leave. We can still be happy together.. I love you”. All I am able to do is back out of the doorway with a solemn face. “DON’T LEAVE, STEVEN.” She screams, venom lacing her voice. “Leaving will be the death of me.” Something clicks. With those words, something clicks, and bubbles of rage which were surfacing before are now beginning to bubble over. I drop the tulips. The wine follows after, smashing into a million pieces, smearing the carpet. My hands are shaking.
