The Dance

 

       She sits down on the floor next to the window. All the lights are off, and the few rays of sun penetrating the thick rain clouds give the room a grayish hue. Picking up the freshly sharpened pencil and the brand new composition notebook, she begins to write down her final epic. It is a story deserving hundreds of pages, but she just doesn’t have the strength anymore. Everything that has already passed has drained it. She writes diligently for over and hour, then stops. She gazes out the window, admiring the soft rain falling on her window pane. “I know how you feel,” her eyes say silently. Now she begins writing again, but what conviction she had earlier has gone. She stops once more to look outside. She stares out at the world from her prison, wishing that she could one day have the chance to see all the wonder and mystery it holds. But she knows that it is nothing more than wishful thinking. Turning her attention back to the notebook, she reads over everything she has jotted down. Quickly, she jumps up and walks towards the kitchen, carrying with her the only two things that ever mattered. They are her weapon; they are her salvation. Once there, she opens the notebook again and begins to tear out and discard the pages she has just spent her last bit of precious time on. On the next blank page, she hurriedly scribbles down four words, then sets both pencil and paper down on the counter. She walks to the oven, turns it on, opens it and sits down on the floor once again. “I think I’ll take a short nap while I wait for them to come home,” she says, almost as if there is a chance they will be home in time to wake her. She lays her body down, and begins to sing softly. “Ring around the rosie,” she pauses. “Pocket full of posy,” her speech slows. “Ashes…to…ashes,” her breathing is shallow now and her eyes close for the last time.
       Her family walks in three hours later, back from church. The first thing they see is a piece of paper lying on the counter. Only four words are written on it. We All Fall Down.

Author's Note

I was thinking about a certain author when I wrote this. Take a guess.