Murusaki
01-20-2009, 03:56 PM
Started writing this late at night. Not entirely sure why I thought of it, but hey, why not write it. Trust me, this one is a lot shorter than my last post. Critique away!
The wooden floorboards creaked as James crept towards Cynthia’s room, moving very slowly, distrusting the old wooden boards that supported him and fearing that he would wake her. The house was old and it’s age was telling. The once pristine white shutters outside the windows were a faded and peeling grey, things such as knobs and faucets fell off of their rightful places on doors and taps, and the walls contained the hidden dangers of asbestos. A danger James had been warned of by family and friends many times when they tried to coax him into abandoning the house and moving to a small townhouse in the city perhaps. Countless pleas such as this fell on James’ ear and countless times James refused. James would not leave the house and more importantly, he would not leave her.
She had been sick for quite some time, what was first thought to be a cold soon worsened and she became bed-ridden. James was bringing her chicken noodle soup, an attempt at warming her chilled body and bringing a youthful glint back to her tired eyes. “Cynthia?” James whispered as he opened the old wooden door, surprisingly the knob stayed in place, and peered around the edge of the door. Cynthia lay in her bed, sleeping peacefully. Satisfied that Cynthia was not disturbed, James continued on tip-toes to her bedside where he placed the soup bowl carefully on the ground. Cynthia was breathtakingly beautiful in her prime, and the sight of her laying helpless on the down mattress, her skin grey and sagging, blonde hair that had once gently waved down her back laying lifeless around her face, lips drooping pained James beyond measure. His Cynthia, his darling Cynthia. James would’ve paid any amount, done any deed to make her well, but the countless doctors who had braved the wooden planks and came to Cynthia’s bedside with cold medical instruments instead of soup could not give a name to the illness that vexed her. Eventually the doctors stopped coming all together, irritated with James’ constant phone calls and pleas, and told him that he was better off to buy a casket and not their service.
“Those doctors don’t know what they’re talking about, do they Cynthia?” James whispered, brushing a stray strand of hair off her face. “You’ll get better. You’ll see. We’ll show them”. James lowered himself onto the mattress and picked up the bowl of soup. “Wake up Cynthia darling. I brought you some soup. Chicken noodle, your favourite. There’s a good girl.” James whispered as he spooned some warm soup into Cynthia’s lips which trickled down the corpse’s esophagus into her empty stomach.
The wooden floorboards creaked as James crept towards Cynthia’s room, moving very slowly, distrusting the old wooden boards that supported him and fearing that he would wake her. The house was old and it’s age was telling. The once pristine white shutters outside the windows were a faded and peeling grey, things such as knobs and faucets fell off of their rightful places on doors and taps, and the walls contained the hidden dangers of asbestos. A danger James had been warned of by family and friends many times when they tried to coax him into abandoning the house and moving to a small townhouse in the city perhaps. Countless pleas such as this fell on James’ ear and countless times James refused. James would not leave the house and more importantly, he would not leave her.
She had been sick for quite some time, what was first thought to be a cold soon worsened and she became bed-ridden. James was bringing her chicken noodle soup, an attempt at warming her chilled body and bringing a youthful glint back to her tired eyes. “Cynthia?” James whispered as he opened the old wooden door, surprisingly the knob stayed in place, and peered around the edge of the door. Cynthia lay in her bed, sleeping peacefully. Satisfied that Cynthia was not disturbed, James continued on tip-toes to her bedside where he placed the soup bowl carefully on the ground. Cynthia was breathtakingly beautiful in her prime, and the sight of her laying helpless on the down mattress, her skin grey and sagging, blonde hair that had once gently waved down her back laying lifeless around her face, lips drooping pained James beyond measure. His Cynthia, his darling Cynthia. James would’ve paid any amount, done any deed to make her well, but the countless doctors who had braved the wooden planks and came to Cynthia’s bedside with cold medical instruments instead of soup could not give a name to the illness that vexed her. Eventually the doctors stopped coming all together, irritated with James’ constant phone calls and pleas, and told him that he was better off to buy a casket and not their service.
“Those doctors don’t know what they’re talking about, do they Cynthia?” James whispered, brushing a stray strand of hair off her face. “You’ll get better. You’ll see. We’ll show them”. James lowered himself onto the mattress and picked up the bowl of soup. “Wake up Cynthia darling. I brought you some soup. Chicken noodle, your favourite. There’s a good girl.” James whispered as he spooned some warm soup into Cynthia’s lips which trickled down the corpse’s esophagus into her empty stomach.