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Chapter 2
Everything’s in a blur. I know I’m dreaming, but I have no power over anything. Nothing ever changes, and all I can do is watch as the horrible scene plays out night after night, as it has been for the last ten years. No matter what I try, nothing can keep the dreams away, not even purposely staying awake. The nightmares keep coming, constantly reminding me of the past.
It always starts off the same way, with the bloody footprints. I fight as hard as I can, but for some reason I feel compelled to follow them, even though I know what lays beyond the gruesome trail. Barefoot, I continue down the hall, until I feel a sharp pain in my foot, stepping on a broken charm from the anklet that I had bought her for her birthday three years ago.
Following the trail, the footsteps seem less careful. They seem to have gone from a slow, steady pace, to a stagger, each step more labored and errant than the last. I see handprints against the wall, as if the person (I can’t admit that it’s Sarah) lost her balance, holding the wall for support before continuing onward.
Suddenly, the trail ended at a closed door, the door to Sarah’s bedroom. As each second goes by, it becomes harder and harder for me to accept the truth, that something is wrong with Sarah. Every fiber of my being tells me not to open the door, that I don’t want to see what’s inside, but I can’t stop myself. I know what I’ll see, but I am unable to stop my hand from reaching out and turning the knob, slowly swinging the door opens. No matter how many times I have this dream, nothing can prepare me for the grisly sight I see every time.
The footsteps on the floor are less defined than ever, but accompanying them are faint handprints on the wall, also tainted red with blood, the trail of pain ending on the other side of her bed, blood staining the white comforter draped across the top. With each step, my breathing becomes harsher as I fight desperately to wake up, but not before I see Sarah, sprawled on the floor, a gash in each ankle. Around her neck was a piece of paper with a single word on it.
Goodbye.
It always starts off the same way, with the bloody footprints. I fight as hard as I can, but for some reason I feel compelled to follow them, even though I know what lays beyond the gruesome trail. Barefoot, I continue down the hall, until I feel a sharp pain in my foot, stepping on a broken charm from the anklet that I had bought her for her birthday three years ago.
Following the trail, the footsteps seem less careful. They seem to have gone from a slow, steady pace, to a stagger, each step more labored and errant than the last. I see handprints against the wall, as if the person (I can’t admit that it’s Sarah) lost her balance, holding the wall for support before continuing onward.
Suddenly, the trail ended at a closed door, the door to Sarah’s bedroom. As each second goes by, it becomes harder and harder for me to accept the truth, that something is wrong with Sarah. Every fiber of my being tells me not to open the door, that I don’t want to see what’s inside, but I can’t stop myself. I know what I’ll see, but I am unable to stop my hand from reaching out and turning the knob, slowly swinging the door opens. No matter how many times I have this dream, nothing can prepare me for the grisly sight I see every time.
The footsteps on the floor are less defined than ever, but accompanying them are faint handprints on the wall, also tainted red with blood, the trail of pain ending on the other side of her bed, blood staining the white comforter draped across the top. With each step, my breathing becomes harsher as I fight desperately to wake up, but not before I see Sarah, sprawled on the floor, a gash in each ankle. Around her neck was a piece of paper with a single word on it.
Goodbye.
♠ ♠ ♠
I said before that I based this story off of losing my own sister, but I changed the method. I figured that cutting her ankles and leaving footprints as a final goodbye would seem more creative. My wish isn't to offend anybody, I just hope that later on the story makes more sense to anyone who may be confused.