Little Ian had growm tired of crying, or more so his eyes had dried out. The moonless night ensured his blindness. Though he couldn't see, he kept his puffy red eyes toward the sky. He laid slumped against the cold, grimy, bricked wall of the old well. His freedom was just ten feet above him. Ian's small fingertips were bloodied and cracked from attempting to clamber to the top. The sting of his crudely shaven nails had dulled and subsided hours ago, but still remained tender to the touch.
Little Ian felt fear and hopelessness swelling in him again. Dried eyes prevented his lamentation. His voice was brittle from yelling nonstop during the first day in the hole. That day he yelled and screamed with pure panic, his mother's name. The child regretted skipping school. His mind went back to the morning of his demise.
He woke up like any other weekday, loathing the schoolday. On some rare occasions he wake up unsure whether it was a weekday or the weekend. In attempt to avoid going to school, he would pull the sheets over his head and feign sleep. His mother would inevitably call his name form the kitchen. When he wouldn't respond, she would go and gently shake him from his slumber facade. Little Ian would awake grumbling and acting as if he was rudely awoken from a pleasant dream. From there he would get dressed in the neatly placed clothes his mother had set out the night before.
It wasn't much but Ian wanted to relive that morning, which seemed so much more golden. He wanted to savor his mother's breakfast. The waffles and bacon he would have otherwise traded for a bowl of cereal, any other morning. In his current situation any sustanunce would benefit. He hadn't eaten anything since that morning. As the saying goes, "dark wells don't make proper pantries." The voilent hunger pangs subdued him.
Ian flashed back on how he came to his abomidal situation. He remembered leaving for school after breakfast, the warmth of the suns rays on his face, the cool wafting breeze on his arms and legs. Ian wanted so intently to be truant fro mthe institution. Along the way he would pass that dark well. In his memory it was an ominous figure of pure malice. In his delicate age he didn't know the purpose of a well. The awry image of the well piqued his curiosity. He set out to explore it's secrets. As he pulled himself to it's summit, the pitch black hole staring back at him, unnerved him. Before seeing it he imagined hiding in it til school let out. He could easily hear the dismisal bell from the distance. To him first grade was just a detterent of his fun. He wanted to carry out his scheme, but wondered if his mother would ever find out. His uneasy countenance ulitimately convinced him out of the hole. As he turned to disengage the pit, he was dishelved by the dew of the morning. He slipped backward, plummeting into the shadows.
Ian cringed, he didn't want to remember the fall and how he let out the most sickening, blood curdling sceam imaginable. He himself wsa deafened from fear and didn't hear his own shrieks of terror. He fell screaming in that fashion til he smashed into the concreted floor of the well, where he continued to scream and sprained his ankle. Ian uncounciously screamed like that all day. He screamed as the bell concluded school. He screamed as the sun set on his day. He screamed til his nerves snapped and he fell asleep.
A horrible scene it is to watch the death of a child's enchantment. We see it everyday in our teenage sons, daughters, cousins, brothers, sisters, and peers. Although it is more dispiriting to witness it happen to someone so young and ignorant to the evils of the world. To see such a sight is like cutting out your own heart with an icy, rusted blade only to have it break and leave you with nothing more than a handle to carry out the task. Little Ian laid on his back remembering the fateful day until the dawn and until the dusk set on another day in his personal hell. As this story ends so spontaneously, you ask yourself, "Did little Ian get out?" Did his mother ever find him?" Well that is the reason I concluded the story on suck short notice. So go ahead and imagine your own fairy tale solutions, but I cannot lie and say that little Ian, though he was a child didnt suffer til his last breath. Because as we know that the real world children die and tragedies happen
- Title: ~And You Just Go On Living~
- Artist: schizophrenic_ai
Random story written while I was in class
I wanted to write something about disenchantment
and this is what i got
Wrote it on a pretty down day
You know the dramatic whipping rain
cold wisping winds
wanna see more work from me or lookin to share your own: http://www.gaiaonline.com/guilds/?guild_id=283653&_gaia_t_=1272
sorry for the bummer
- Date: 02/14/2010
- Tags: just living tragedy