She stopped dead in her tracks. She was startled. Her voice was completely gone. Shockingly, she saw that the hooded silhouette in front of her wasn't her mother; she did not know who it was.
Slowly, as not to alarm the unwanted visitor, she reached out for her ballpoint pen and dug it as deep as she could into the neck of the intruder. The mess was horrific, blood all over her face as well as his clothes, but Emily stayed strong. She clumsily tumbled off her bed and ran as fast as she could downstairs to the phone.
She hastily pressed any buttons she could until she'd finally keyed in the number for the police department. She looked up at the screen of the phone and realized it was growing darker. Someone must have unplugged it.
She turned slowly on the spot to see the silhouette standing there with what looked like a very large pair of scissors in one hand and a big tangle of wires in the other. This man knew what he was doing. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness of the hallway and she couldn't help noticing the man looked like he had a very slight grin on his face, as though he felt proud of himself.
Thinking on her feet, Emily gripped hold of the phone and threw it as hard as she could at the man. Excellent. It had done the job of hitting him right in the face and knocking him out. She knew he was out cold but she couldn't help sprinting her way to her next door neighbor, Mrs Conway's house.
The door was ever so slightly ajar and she nudged it open. All the color from her face drained as she saw a trail of red liquid leading to what looked like a pair of slippers. Mrs Conway was dead.
There were several flesh wounds on her stomach and a very large bullet hole on the side of her head. This couldn't have been suicide, Mrs Conway was a lovely woman who had loved every moment of life. She very frequently stated it. This must have been the work of that sinister silhouette at Emily's house.
The horrid thing was that the sinister silhouette was no longer at Emily's house by this point. He was no more than 30 steps away from the front door of Mrs Conway's house. Emily had spent so much time contemplating the cause of Mrs Conway's death that she had almost forgotten that the man could have woken up any second.
She heard three slow knocks on the door but before she had a chance to hide the door had been kick off its hinges and the man was hurtling towards her. She attempted to scream but, paralyzed by fear, nothing came out. He seemed to be fiddling with something in his left pocket, which Emily found quite peculiar. She soon found out that the thing he was handling was a very long, very sharp knife.
"Hello, darlin'. Nothin' personal." and with that he plunged the knife deep into her chest. He managed a small cackle before storming out and driving away. No guilt could be seen on his face at all.
Slowly, as not to alarm the unwanted visitor, she reached out for her ballpoint pen and dug it as deep as she could into the neck of the intruder. The mess was horrific, blood all over her face as well as his clothes, but Emily stayed strong. She clumsily tumbled off her bed and ran as fast as she could downstairs to the phone.
She hastily pressed any buttons she could until she'd finally keyed in the number for the police department. She looked up at the screen of the phone and realized it was growing darker. Someone must have unplugged it.
She turned slowly on the spot to see the silhouette standing there with what looked like a very large pair of scissors in one hand and a big tangle of wires in the other. This man knew what he was doing. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness of the hallway and she couldn't help noticing the man looked like he had a very slight grin on his face, as though he felt proud of himself.
Thinking on her feet, Emily gripped hold of the phone and threw it as hard as she could at the man. Excellent. It had done the job of hitting him right in the face and knocking him out. She knew he was out cold but she couldn't help sprinting her way to her next door neighbor, Mrs Conway's house.
The door was ever so slightly ajar and she nudged it open. All the color from her face drained as she saw a trail of red liquid leading to what looked like a pair of slippers. Mrs Conway was dead.
There were several flesh wounds on her stomach and a very large bullet hole on the side of her head. This couldn't have been suicide, Mrs Conway was a lovely woman who had loved every moment of life. She very frequently stated it. This must have been the work of that sinister silhouette at Emily's house.
The horrid thing was that the sinister silhouette was no longer at Emily's house by this point. He was no more than 30 steps away from the front door of Mrs Conway's house. Emily had spent so much time contemplating the cause of Mrs Conway's death that she had almost forgotten that the man could have woken up any second.
She heard three slow knocks on the door but before she had a chance to hide the door had been kick off its hinges and the man was hurtling towards her. She attempted to scream but, paralyzed by fear, nothing came out. He seemed to be fiddling with something in his left pocket, which Emily found quite peculiar. She soon found out that the thing he was handling was a very long, very sharp knife.
"Hello, darlin'. Nothin' personal." and with that he plunged the knife deep into her chest. He managed a small cackle before storming out and driving away. No guilt could be seen on his face at all.
Streetlamps, houses, gates, remotes, books, CDs and televisions. Brothers. Pairs. Each has a twin. In this chaotic place of materials the world has come to be, everything has a brother. But brothers are family. And family is connected somehow; if not by blood, then by what?
Energy.
Look hard. At everything that has a brother. A line of energy casts a connection between the two. The energy, with its harsh glares and cold looks creates the strongest and most complex bonds. Strong because of their brotherhood. Complex because of its invisibility. For there is power in invisibility. Cold, cruel power. The power to be a persecutor with no chance of being a victim. The power to twist and squeeze but not feel the wrenching pain of your twists.
Now, you ask, what is left? Cruel, invisible energy. For a cruel, invisible world.
This is my first time writing in stream of consciousness. I know it's short but don't judge me too harshly.
Energy.
Look hard. At everything that has a brother. A line of energy casts a connection between the two. The energy, with its harsh glares and cold looks creates the strongest and most complex bonds. Strong because of their brotherhood. Complex because of its invisibility. For there is power in invisibility. Cold, cruel power. The power to be a persecutor with no chance of being a victim. The power to twist and squeeze but not feel the wrenching pain of your twists.
Now, you ask, what is left? Cruel, invisible energy. For a cruel, invisible world.
This is my first time writing in stream of consciousness. I know it's short but don't judge me too harshly.