She Screamed #ProjectHeWrites

She Screamed

To enjoy this story at the best, maybe you'd like to listen its little tracklist. You'll find it as an external link, but feel free to search each song on your own:

From Yesterday - 30 Seconds To Mars

Until We Go Down - Ruelle

Hurricane - 30 Seconds to Mars

***

"Will that be all, Mister Turner?" I said after signing the papers the lawyer showed me.

"Yes, yes, it is," he spoke looking at each of them, just to make sure everything was correct.

"Then I must think we are finally done with the papers." I stood, hoping this meant the end of our meetings and the beginning of my rest.

"Indeed, hope I did not bother you so much these days, Mister Allan."

"At all, you were doing your job, nothing more. Please, don't hesitate to contact me if you need something else, anything." I was being polite, obviously. The last thing I wanted was to see this man again.

"I will let you know if the time comes, but I don't see it soon by now."

"Hope you have a good trip, then."

"And you a good life, Mister Allan." We shook hands, I walked him to the entrance and said our final goodbyes. "Receive my heartfelt condolences," he said turning one more time to me," may your father rest in peace."

When I closed the doors, now completely alone in a big, old house that now seemed empty and sinister, I couldn't but let my tears fall down, burning my checks as they descended as my body, who met the floor in a few seconds, holding my hand between my hands and knees.

There was nothing I could have done, but something in my mind prevented me from accepting it, to face the new life I had in front. I wanted my past, I needed it, and somehow, days were passing by faster than before, as if making fun of me.

I went upstairs to the library, my jail and church, the only place I had slept in since it happened. Every night I felt her presence there, patiently waiting for me and the day she will cry again, announcing my death.

The smell of old books, my private havens, comforted me a little while I walked to the black armchair where I used to read, the one besides the window. The sky was cloudy, something I thanked inside. I wouldn't have tolerated the sun and its light.

Once there, with salted cheeks and irritated eyes, I let my gaze get lost in the landscape and my face bury itself between the memories, going back, one more time, to that night when legends and tales came to life.

It was eleven and a half during a quiet night. I couldn't sleep, some frightening nightmares had taken my sleep under their domain, which made me decide a little reading to clear my thoughts would be a better option than to insist on something useless.

I got up from the bed to go to our library. There were books I haven't even started, some of them with love stories so cheesy and girlish, simple and cliché, my father thought I was not his son when he discovered a hardcover copy of Pride and Prejudice in my night table.

I didn't blame him when he looked curiously at me the next morning, the stories I use to have around are those plagued with vampires, ghosts, undead creatures, witches, demons, treachery angels, and any other kind of dark being I could find in the local store or the library we had in the house.

My father had been like me in his teenage years: preferred to be reading than to attend meetings, discover new worlds in the pages than to be aware of the real world. In the course of his life, with the help of my mother, he ended with an enviable collection of stories, I guess that one thousand.