the sickly sweet wallpaper peeled off the walls and the faint stench of perfume meandered the rooms. Carrie wandered the rooms, running her finger absent minded along the frail walls. She checked her phone. Seven minutes past three. It had been a lazy afternoon. Perfect and sunny. She waltzed into the bathroom. Checking her reflection in the clouded mirror, smiling charmingly to herself.
Then she heard her name, being whispered. But it surrounded her.
she turned one way and saw no one.
"caaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrie" the voice whined
Carrie shot her head in every direction, searching desperately for the whisperer. The words filled up her head. Gnawing through her from the inside out, mining away at her flesh and bones until nothing was left but a limp pile of pale skin.
"murder" the voice taunted.
"muuuuuurder" the room itself seemed like it was alive. She could almost hear the walls breathing, almost smell the rotting odour that seemed to fume and billow out of every corner.
Then something willed her to do something. Something that she would regret for a long time.
This something would cause her to lay awake at night, her eyes frozen open, staring into the void of darkness, for seven years. Listening for voices.
She opened the bathroom cabinet. It was one of those cabinets hidden behind the mirror. One that was there for dramatic 70's housewives to tear open and spill pills all over the floor in desperate times.
There, cramped up in a bundle, tied together with rope that cut into her porcelain skin, was her next door neighbour. July.
Her eyes were dreamy as if watching a play no one else could see. Her head was tilted to the side. Carrie could just see a very thin precise crimson line that ran around her pale neck. A single hole was burrowed into her chest. Crusty blood dried around it, like sticky jam smeared around a child's mouth. But it look as if hardly any blood had spurted out. The cabinet and pale white floors remained clean.
Pop goes the weasel rang out through the pastel coloured bathroom, slicing the sweet air. It rang and rang and rang, like an eerie kind of celebration. A weary, but triumphant salute.
Carrie slowly picked up her phone and looked at the screen.
It was 17 minutes past 3.
It was July calling.
What do you do when a dead girl calls you?
Carrie could see July's phone. It had fallen to the ground. The screen told her it was calling Carrie.
Then for the second time that innocent Summer's day Carrie did another thing she would regret.
she answered the phone.
"hello" carrie stammered, her voice like a ferris wheel stuck midair, swinging slightly in the breeze.
"hello Carrie. I'm not dead." July's voice whispered.
Then the phone hung up.
And July, still staring wistfully at Carrie, looked as murdered as ever. A text message flashed onto carrie's screen. The square letters would haunt Carrie forever. Even on her death bed, these words would crowd around her and scrape the insides of her brain.
The would taunt and tease and mock her whenever she was alone, and she would never escape them.
that was a story I wrote in literature. When I finished, my teacher was like "wow, we have a really dark class don't we?"
now, looking back, I realise how much better I could make this. I love to write, I really really do. but I always get freaked out about the plot line, so always just write thousands of beginnings of stories.
camp was good.
I got wet.
I discovered I like thermals.
singing was good.
apparently I was loud.
holidays in 4 days.