story embroider

Story embroider

Wrapped in deathly silence, the only sound heard was the crunching of gravel under my feet as I walked. I reached the iron wrought gates and looked up at the spikes protruding at the ends. Even though I had passed this way many a times the height of the gate still awed me. Breathing deeply I strode forwards filled with a sense of purpose, and perhaps a bit of fear. Somewhere in the unnatural silence, a shopkeeper had closed the shutter of his shop with a bang that reverberated off the dark dome of the sky, with a ghostly echo. I saw the miniscule figure walk into a side-door not wanting to stay outside any longer than he had to. The gate squeaked shrilly as I opened it and somewhere in the distance a wolf howled as though announcing my arrival.
Head up, I walked forward unafraid of anything. Maybe one thing, I thought bitterly. I walked on to the road, stacks of houses on either side looming upon me as though they might crumple and fall any second. A sole light shone in the house to my right. I did not enter it. Instead I walked around the corner of the house and turned right. I reached a dark flight of stairs, the bulb hung broken on its socket. Years of experience told me where the stairs were so I climbed with the same speed, maintaining the aura of purpose ness. The bulb cast a dim, flickering light on the next flight of stairs. It looked like some pathetic creature striving to stay alive. I laughed mercilessly at this thought. I laughed in my mind, not aloud.
I was not a lunatic
The words that sketched my life. The only words that undermined my existence, my will to live.
I reached my destination. Before me was an iron wrought mesh gate and beyond that a thick wooden one. Both the doors were closed. I rapped on the door smartly with my knuckles. Nothing happened. I rang the bell. A few seconds later the wooden door was drawn, a path of light reached my feet. The light broke a second later and a woman’s voice asked, “Who is it?”
“It is I”
The door opened and I crossed over the threshold and glanced at the woman. She looked in the late forties. There were light wrinkles under her eyes and white hair wove among the black.
“Have you brought it?”
“yes,” I replied, handing over the cover.
She took it her hands and examined the contents, a few seconds later her face contorted and the wrinkles deepend.
I had just seen the thing I was most scared of.
An angry mom
To be continued…