Writing. The only way you can truly express your feelings while keeping it to yourself the whole time. I write when I’m filled with happiness, drowned with sorrow and everything in between. For me, writing is like breathing and I can’t imagine a life without it. I believe that writing is just as important as reading – we must learn to express our thoughts and feelings like characters do in the books we read. So, I thought I would share a snippet of a piece of writing I’ve been working on.
It was 11:49 at night when I heard it. My eyes were about to blink for the last time before I fell into a deep, dreamy slumber. Little did I know that this was going to be the first of many sleepless nights. My name is Alanna Turner and this is my story.
It was late on a Friday night and I couldn’t sleep a wink, which resulted in late night sessions with my good friend, the Internet. After hours of useless browsing and stalking on my social media accounts, I finally felt sleep coming my way. As I was closing my eyes for the last time that night, a scream filled my ears and made me jump. The scream came from my parent’s room. I remember getting out of bed and walking towards their bedroom. Two gunshots followed and now I was running down the hallway, my feet slipping on the slick tiles until I bumped into my brother. He must have heard it too. He gave me a look of utter shock before taking my hand and dragging me towards our destination.
Holding me up with one arm, my brother Mike proceeded to slide open the door to reveal a shocking sight. There lay my mother and father, tucked inside the crisp white sheets almost as if they were sound asleep. It was only when I walked towards my mother’s side did I realise that they were far deeper in sleep than we thought they were. Something wet trickled onto my foot and I glanced down with my heart in my throat. A scarlet red puddle had formed on my foot, my mind freezing at the sight of blood. With shaking hands, I reached for the blanket and threw it off their pale bodies in one swift movement. Two clean bullet wounds accessorised their peaceful faces. Then the tears came, flooding out of my eyes like tsunami tides, drowning my soul in endless sorrow.
Without wasting another second, I grabbed the phone and called 911, my breath quickening and eyes closing. The last thing I remember is the strong arm of my brother catching me as I fell and holding me close to him. The sounds of his quick heartbeats were the last thing I heard before the world blacked out.
I woke up to the sound of a heart monitor and the smell of expired medicine. I was in hospital. But why was I here? Why was I sleeping on a hospital bed with pipes coming out of every part of my body? Barely a second had passed before the events of the previous night came flooding in. The screams, gunshots and cries of pain rang in my ears and I couldn’t stop the tears from coming once again. Were my parents all right? Were they saved? But there was one question that kept crawling into my mind. Were they dead? Now I was screaming in pain of a ripped heart and a twisted mind.
All I know that somebody had hurt the most important people in my life. Their souls had been ripped apart and put back together under the pristine white bed covers and their bodies had been decorated with bullet wounds and tattoos of dried blood. All I know is that they were in a cold, dark, lifeless room instead of here, next to me. All I know now is that somebody tortured my parents and I won’t rest until I tear their life apart.
My name is Alanna Turner, and this is what I call revenge.
Sometimes, we have to convey our feelings in the form of writing. I seem to have been experiencing pain while writing this. Emotions make your imagination run wild…
“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed”
– Ernest Hemingway