Just a bit of babble


#1

Not really a CS game (Sorry!) just a bit of creative babble that it probably rubbish but still want your opinions on ('Cause you guys are terrific) and maybe if you could add to it and what to improve. (Mind you it’s very long).

Sterile walls seemed distant to me, an echo lost within the perpetual labyrinth that is my mind. My jumpsuit had hung loosely and in tatters, dragging behind me as my feet shuffled across the black tiled floor. There are no windows, not in a place like this, but if I had the time to think about it, I would assume it was raining. The walls just seemed to overflow with damp, and the air hanged heavily like Victorian curtains. Strong hands had clamped around my arms, dragging me towards a steel door, and when it was opened had revealed a desolate chair. I felt fingers release their iron grasp and put me on the chair with measured force: They didn’t need to, it’s not like I can go anywhere else and despite chills crawling through my skin, I had made myself comfortable.

When the door had closed it was then I had felt like I was drowning, a cutting light crashing over me as my lungs had taken sharp breaths. Knowing that my only exit was gone had terrified me.
I now know why the caged bird sings.
Ropes were tightened around my wrists until they chaffed a layer of skin off, a headpiece made of daunting wires and jagged metals had been lowered to fit my head. A throne of utter shame, as if it were made for hated Kings.

Funny, you had always loved to play princess.

Although you had always done it differently hadn’t you? Most little girls would twirl about in fake tiaras or cheap lace and dream of handsome princes that they could never have, but not you. You were a real princess; Instead of tea-parties you had given food out to your ‘subjects’, even though they were just made up of battered old teddies. I remember you raiding the fridge because your ‘Kingdom would go hungry’. I miss those nights, finding you asleep on the scratchy couch itching around for your blanket, waiting for me to drape one over you. You know I always did, before it was your mother who had done it but . . . I never really talked about your mother with you did I?

I remember when I had first met her.

It was December 25th when I had met your mother, snow seemed to strike from the sky as if they were flitting needles and the roads were starved of human contact. Trees had encased snow in their knarled branches; it was as if the whole world were smothered in a cosy blanket of white. I was trekking home with no more than a scarf and a deep red jumper; I was homeless at the time, see? Just left the army with nowhere to go I had been abandoned – With nothing I had wondered the wilderness of New York’s subway stations. It was on that night when your mother had interviewed me; she used to be a journalist and was writing an article on the homeless. I remember the firelight had danced across her cat-like eyes, focusing and streaming life into me by just looking at them. I didn’t need to warm my hands anymore as her tender smile had set my heart leaping Olympic gold. Her hair was polished and the colour of Red Herring – My favourite dish. She had offered me a cigarette and from then on she kept visiting. Since I had thick stubble back then; she thought I looked cool smoking, like a character out of those action movies you despise so much.

It was on her death I had stopped smoking, only having one cigarette in front of your mother’s grave every year we visit. I guess it was a way to reassure her that I’m still the cool action hero that was saving the day, that she can rest assured I was there for you no matter what.

Pathetic isn’t it? She would hate me, for leaving you like this.

With a few more moments left I think about him. Bright-eyes fearful as I had seen them slip away, his face left in agony when he had passed, completely different from the pictures that haunt today’s television screens. I remember the day he died, the day I had killed him, it wasn’t dramatic in anyway – In fact I had taken you to the park that day to see your mother’s grave. Tender flakes had drifted by and the early morning had left a bouquet of colours in the sky. Of course you had darted ahead with a Sweet pea in your hand, you always rushed to visit your mother: When she had returned from an exhausting day of work, you were there to smother her with affection and babble about anything.
When we had arrived I had taken out my cigarette, the tip burning like a house on fire, while smoke lustfully danced around it.You never have stayed silent; you would talk to her grave about the year so far, and how you missed her greatly as if she were just returning from work.

After a prayer we had gone for a Red Herring at your mother’s favourite diner, I think it was yours too, as despite it being a diner, it was a fancy place – Fit for a princess.

I had stupidly forgotten my scarf at the grave; I bet she would be laughing wouldn’t she? I ran so I wouldn’t leave you by yourself for too long, when I had reached the grave what I had found still stiffens my nerves. Teens, a bunch of them, spraying graffiti your mother’s grave as if it were the dirtied walls of the subway. My knuckles had clenched until they went white, how dare they? HOW DARE THEY? Ignoring their snarky comments I grab one by his collar, fear trickled like rain on windows, I hadn’t even realised that I had attacked him.

It wasn’t until I was pulled off by police officers that I had seen the extent of his injuries. His face was bruised and swollen, his nose and mouth streamed crimson while his hair had been matted with blood, blonde curls sticking out like splintered wood. Then I turned to my own bloodied hands, and then I had looked at you. Your sky-bright eyes, watered and already sore, look up to me but then turn away – As if I was not your father but a prowling demon, unmoving with eyes stalking the police officers as cool cuffs press against my wrist.

That was the last day I had saw you, and I am sorry it had to be that way.

Recovering my senses I realise two officers had been staring at me, as if they didn’t know what to do with me but wait. One had a pensive look about his eye as if he were trying to worm his way into my mind and see what I am thinking, while the other had glared at me with fierce loathing, as if he couldn’t wait for me to die. They stand at attention as a lean man strides in, his suit pristine and his badge winking in the cutting light while a cigarette packet was tucked neatly in his pocket.

“Do you have any lasts requests?”

I nudge my head towards his cigarette pack, he inclines and even lights it, then sets it in my mouth with his crusted fingers. One of the officers gets ready by the switch, just a flick and thousands of volts will pulsate across my body, as if I was just a light bulb in flesh. Why should I be scared? You’re the real victim, your head hanging in shame from having me as a father, for being alone and having no family – And yet a tear rolls down my cheek.

Princess, I’m so sorry.


#2

Very touching. Very descriptive. I love it.


#3

@hahaha01357 Thanks! It’s a bit of creative writing inspired after having a debate about people in death row, then I had watched ‘Barbie Princess’ with my younger cousin and had utterly despised it and told her what real princess’s have to do.


#4

Awww it’s beautiful and a bit depressing but I still think it was amazing .