Too Many Words to Write

1: A House on the Edge of the Highway

Every single second of your life leads up to the moment you die.

It's inevitable. Unstoppable.

But as I walked up to Mrs. Ballentine's ramshackle little house, skin blistering under the hot summer sun, I was completely unaware of that interesting little fact.

I was completely unaware that today was the day my life would change forever.

...

I knock on the door three times in rapid succession.

"Mrs. Ballentine?" I call out, trying to speak over the blaring horns and rumbling engines. Mrs. Ballentine's house is right on the edge of a highway, so there's always a noisy clatter in the background when I visit. "It's me, Mira."

The door opens a couple moments later, revealing a heavily tattooed, black-clad woman with a silver stud in her nose. Her wrinkled hands grasp the doorknob as she gives me a quick once-over.

"Mira. You're late." Her voice is hoarse, as if she hasn't used it in a while. "Come in."

I step inside and shut the door behind me, kicking off my shoes.

"Here's the shelf I was taking about," she says when we reach the kitchen. "It's so cluttered but I can't quite reach it - it strains my back."

Despite her looks, Mrs. Ballentine is a seventy-something-year-old woman living by herself in a secluded part of town. Through a number of volunteer organizations, I discovered she was in desperate need of assistance when it came to cleaning her house. With arthritic knees and a severely bent back, she could not perform many of the tasks necessary in maintaining a home.

Naturally I gravitated towards the idea of helping her out - until I first saw her. It took me a while to warm up to her spiky personality, but now I was designated as her personal cleaner - for no charge. Part of me wanted to ask her for money in return, but another, firmer part of me shut down the idea immediately.

I was doing this out of the goodness of my heart, nothing else.

That goodness was now being put to use... cleaning out Mrs. Ballentine's grimy shelves.

With a sigh, I get out the cleaning supplies (given to me by Mrs. Ballentine) and start working.

While I scrub at the stained wood, she takes a seat beside me. This was our routine - I work; she talks.

And boy, could she talk.

I've visited her house about seven times now, each time for an hour or two. And within those hours I learned all about her pets (two cats, Mimo and Mittens), her family (non-existent, apart from her now-deceased husband), her childhood (mostly uneventful,) and her hobbies (reading, baking, and piano-playing).

Today, her topic of choice is her uncontrollable obsession when it comes to collecting old, useless things (her words, not mine).

As she blathers, her features soften. Mimo and Mittens scamper inside, curling up onto her lap. It's almost a picture perfect moment.

Mrs. Ballentine's eyes start to get this faraway look, which is when I know she's now lost to this world, caught up in her story.

So I listen, adding in the occasional nod or "uh-huh" (not that she hears it, anyways, she's so caught up in the story. By the time she's done her story about the time her friend Becca almost lost her first edition copy of Lord of the Rings, the shelf has been cleaned thoroughly, inside and out.

I wipe away the sweat from my forehead and turn around to Mrs. Ballentine. She's still talking, but Mittens is no longer on her lap.

Huh, I thought. That's a bit strange.

Mittens is a permanent fixture around Mrs. Ballentine, especially when she was telling stories.

But I didn't pay much attention to it until I saw a familiar black and white striped tail disappearing out the front door. I frowned. The cats weren't supposed to go outside because of the house's proximity to the highway.

"There was also that time I got a-"

"Mrs. Ballentine?" I interrupt. "I think Mittens just went outside."

Mrs. Ballentine shoots up, almost kicking Mimo in the process. He snarls and moves to the other side of the room.

"Oh dear," Mrs. Ballentine says, wringing her hands together. She used to have another cat - named Mimi - who wandered outside one day and gotten hit by a car. Mrs. Ballentine had had a difficult time recovering from that incident. She didn't let me in for months.

I rush outside, Mrs. Ballentine hobbling after me. My eyes dart around, praying that Mittens will appear around the corner, safe and unarmed.

My prayers go unanswered.

I almost want to go back inside and shield Mrs. Ballentine's eyes, pretend that this never happened.

Because underneath the tires whizzing by, there is a small, red mound of fur glistening in the summer sun.

Wow. I did not intend for the first chapter to be so dark. But the rest of the story goes like this, so if you can't handle gristly and gruesome scenes... no one's stopping you from leaving.

But if you're cool with it all, tell me what you think - vote or leave a comment! I am always open to feedback on the writing!