Short Story Part IV: Reflection

As part of my continued effort to share my writer's journey, as well as build my platform for my own published works, I will share with you now my next installment of my short story currently untitled.

As I said when I first began posting this series is that this story would be a launching pad for a possible on screen adaptation that I am currently developing and perhaps act as a background story to one of the key characters.

Your feedback is appreciated (though please treat with gentle gloves, as I don't have it as polished as I would have liked). I understand that this is all part of my overall evolution and that this by no means is the endpoint to where I currently am.

I humbly say that I am still working at it! Enjoy!

Part IV: Reflection

Even up here I look for some time away. With a pen in my hand, it wasn’t too hard to find that place. I sat in the dining room finishing a sketching of sunrise. It was of the lake house. It looks like a dance across the water. Angela knows how I need the time. Kept me from unraveling.

It could very well be past three in the morning when I first hear it. The sound feels distant but I know it wasn't far. The bourbon must still be feeling fresh.

I put my scrapbook away when I hear it knocking again. Its soft, just barely. Probably wouldn't have heard it otherwise. Maybe I was waiting for it.

I turn towards the hallway, down the living room. The knocking is just above a whisper, just above... the silence.

A familiar ice-cold chill runs up my spine as I come upon the double doors, same heart beat ringing in my ears. I slide the doors open to reveal an empty room bathed in the moonlight outside. I switch a nearby table lamp to see the room just the same. Fuck me, I need to stop letting my mind wander. The drapes in front of an open window rustle against my uncle’s old liquor cabinet. It beckons to me.

Grabbing a bottle of Kentucky Bourbon, I begin to pour myself a glass. One more for the sandman. I savor the whiskey with my eyes closed, thinking of where I am and how things would be okay. It’s been close to a week and no contact from my guy.

“Leave us.”

I freeze. That voice. I was nine years old again.

“You need to leave,” it whispers.

In the reflection of the liquor cabinet mirror, I see him. A small child, frail and weak with hollow eyes, standing in the main doorway. I can't move and I don't dare speak. Through the dirt and rust of the cabinet mirror I recognize those same eyes off the mirror reflection, so many years ago.

“Please go now.”

My mouth, tense and dry, begins to speak, “Why?”

“You don’t have much time.”

“Who…are you?”

In a cold trance, I suddenly turn around. I'm staring at the living room doorway, empty.

“Fuck me,” I said.

In a cold sweat, I put the bottle away and close the cabinet door.



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