HEEYY. Um this is a story I had to write for school. It's pretty short and in the middle it lags a bit but yeah, I hope you like it (:
Comment, PLEASE.
Love, Lexie.
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"Stay inside Holly! I'll give it to you in just a minute." Clair pulled down the kitchen blinds and locked the old, heavy wooden door. Finally, she was alone with Holly's birthday present and had enough time to wrap it in. She stroked the crusty, ancient pages of the leather-bound journal. The strong smell of century-old parchment wafted out from between the crinkled pages. Clair wrapped it tightly in the metallic blue wrapping paper that had been sitting on her desk for weeks, patiently awaiting the eve of Holly's twenty-first birthday. Placing the delicate on the cream seats of the veiled red convertible Holly would be getting later in the afternoon, she retreated back inside her best friend's home.
Clair wandered through the house. A silence hung heavily on her shoulders. The air was thick and hard to breathe in. She turned off the heater and took off her jacket, throwing it onto the couch. "Holly?" she called through the hall. A scream filled the heavy air. Clair closed the distance between where she stood and the kitchen door in two comical leaps. Her fingers worked quickly at the lock, intricately twisting the key hole in a way that made her look like she knew exactly what she was doing. Before the door could swing open and reveal the horrendous sight behind, the frame gave way, and a huge slab of wood smashed into the floorboards, sending a dust cloud flying into the smoky room. Fire raged ferociously inside, swallowing every wooden item in the kitchen, and licking away at the plastic that was already beginning to melt.
Sirens blared in the distance. Fire men in big heat proof jackets and smoke masks rushed calmly through the maze of fire. By now the whole kitchen was a blaze. Time passed in a painful blur. Clair watched as Holly's limp, lifeless body was stretchered out of the wreckage. She fought against the strong grasp a fire man had of her arms, trying to drag herself back toward where Holly now lay in a patch of dewy grass that was in desperate need of a mow.
Clair stood at the entrance to the terminal, an untouched muffin in her pale, clammy hands. Dressed from head to toe in black, to onlookers it must've appeared she was on her way to a funeral. She should have been. She boarded the areoplane, blocking her thoughts and refusing the speak unless necessary. Ignoring the fat business man next to her that took up two seats and smelt strongly of body odor, she stared down at the empty tray in front of her. Hesitantly, she reached into her bag, clutching for the crusty leather-bound journal that she'd wrapped in shiny blue paper what seemed all of another life time ago...
Hours after she'd picked up the blue inky pen that had cost her a mint, she was still sitting hunched over the journal, pouring her soul out subconsciously onto the hungry pages.
The crisp morning air bit into Clair's skin. A grey, English sky stretched like a blanket above her head for as far as she could see. She was away from her best friend's empty house. Away from the unused convertible that still sat in her garage, waiting to be unveiled. Away from the guilt, the funeral and the grave.
For weeks, Clair did nothing. Wandered aimlessly around bustling English shopping malls, dusted ornaments in her house that could not possibly already be dusty and wrote every thought that entered her mind into the awaiting pages of Holly's journal, that ate her words like it hadn't seen ink in years. On and on her life went, and she watched, dazed and half asleep as it passed her by.
One particularly cold morning, when Clair was in a particularly dull mood, she was walking through the particularly foggy back streets of England. Most windows she passed were boarded up with rotting wood, and cobwebs hung from the broken glass of street lamps like they did in movies. Street after street seemed to be lifeless and empty. In a small shop tucked away in the middle of two gloomy buildings shone the only light. The glass was dirty and the display in the front window was empty except for a ripped poster containing unreadable writing. Curious and alert for the first time in forever, she opened the door and stepped cautiously inside.
"Hello young missy. What do you want?"
"Hi. Can you please tell me where I am?" Clair asked, absorbed in her surroundings.
"You're in my shop. I'm a fortune teller. I'll tell your fortune now! For free young missy!" the little old lady clung to her arm, dragging her over to a table. The room was over crowded with candles and jars with jewels and newspapers crammed inside. "Sit." the lady commanded, seating herself on one end of the table. She grabbed Clair's hand and rubbed along the lines of her fingers roughly. "You have no idea who you are anymore. Therefore neither do I. Now, you must leave young missy. Make a life for yourself! Flee while the sun still rises and the moon still shines!" with a strong shove, Clair was once again standing on the pavement outside. She stumbled her way back to her comfortable, heated English home that thankfully lacked crazy hippy ladies.
She awoke the next morning to see sun streaming through the usually fogged up window. She got out Holly's diary, rubbing the worn leather fondly. She closed it and placed it back on the dresser. Getting out of bed, she dressed in her black patent shoes, black stockings, black dress and black coat. That night, she stood once again, in line at the airport, ready to board a plane.
Holly's grave stone sat deep in mud, swamped with flowers. Clair felt the weight of it on her heart, pressing down her emotions. Laying the journal down on it, she turned and walked away. She let go of the past and took her first steps towards the future. A muddy white ribbon blew past her and she leapt, catching it in her palm. She tied it in her hair, smiling, and left the grave yard, no longer dressed in all black.
