Creative Writing / Fiction

Outside the Window

I love resurrecting old pieces. This one was written when I was 14 years old (when there wasn’t really a vampire craze). I wrote this because of a writing exercise that suggested to write about your room at night. Obviously, this is fiction.

 

I lay hunched over on my writing desk with the distinct scent of burning plastic. My nose is only centimeters away from the paper and as I breath in, the paper’s chest folds up as if it is breathing with me. My pencil occasionally brushes against my forehead as I draw. The plastic is becoming overbearing, such a cheap desk. My comfy chair broke yesterday so I sit here on a tin one, with the paint ripping off and poking me in the back. It rocks back and forth and makes a clicking sound. Click. Click. Click-click. The room is dark but my desk is dimly lit, I need light to draw of course, as does any other normal artist. Some times I sit here for hours in the dark, drawing, hoping that maybe the darkness will guide my hand in ways my eyes never could.

I draw at night, when the sun has dropped and the moon rises with a sense of serenity. The window is usually open, like it is now. Something is unusual about tonight. I can’t exactly begin to comprehend the difference, it could be a small insignificant thing like the temperature being one degree colder, or hotter, but preferably colder. They like the cold weather, you know. Sometimes, they pace outside my window, knocking on the roof, pretending to be squirrels, and acting as though they are trying to dodge away from my glances. If they didn’t want to be seen, they wouldn’t be walking by my window would they? They never come in though, and they don’t answer when I ask them questions.

At first their constant footsteps on the roof were annoying and I could hardly concentrate. I found myself blasting my music to drown out the sound, but then they just stamped their feet louder, like a child pulling a temper tantrum. So I got used to it, it became one of the normal sounds such as the swish as my hand brushed against paper, the scratch of pencils, and the recent the click of my chair as it wobbles off balance even now. Click. All of these things, imprinted in my brain, and then my brain tells me I am hearing nothing. Silence.

Still there is something wrong. Something is different. The whole house is quiet and I listen for the footsteps. I can’t hear them. Perhaps I do hear them, but my brain is just blocking them out. I sit and rock my chair back and force. Click. Click. Click. I can hear the bottom of the chair stick to the ground and then slam down on the other side. Scratch. Swish. My mind has turned the silence off. I hear breathing. I look at my paper, it is motionless. I hold my breath but I still hear it, I can feel it on the back of my neck. I shift my eyes and look to my sides, remaining perfectly still. Shadows dance across the floor, familiar shadows. They have outlines of frogs and beads, which are from my windows. But one of the shadows is new. My heart skips a beat and ice runs through my veins. My legs tighten and my muscles tense. I can feel the back of my neck cringing as the shadow grows closer to the chair. The light flickers. The paper starts to pant. The pencil begins to scratch. My nervousness causes me to shift back and forth. Click, click, click-click-click. I turn, quickly.

Once again. I am faced with darkness. I sigh and my muscles relax. My legs go back to being noodles and I turn around to draw again. I look at my paper, still the same drawing. I put my elbow on the desk but as I do this motion, my pencil runs off the edge. I shrug and bend down to the ground to pick it up. Click. The chair leans with me as I move off balance. I swing myself up but now my paper is gone. I search my mind, trying to think if I moved it as I went down. The only possible answer is that as I got up, I blew the paper over. I shift to the next side. No click. I feel around the floor until my hand treads upon the once wobbling leg. Under it is my drawing, folded perfectly eight times. My stomach tenses. I get out of the chair and pick up the folded paper. The edges are sharp and bite me as I clench it in my hand. I look around my room but nothing is here. The paper makes the familiar swish sound as my finger tips unfold it. My neck tenses again and I drop the paper.

“Dear Mortal, Will you kindly get another chair that doesn’t make so much noise. It is distracting us. Sincerely, the Vampires Outside Your Window”

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