Lakes

A Story by NAHTEWOHARD

A story that won my school writing contest

Lakes
March 18- To my father, nothing was ever free. That’s why he never took anything offered to him; he knew there must have been a catch to the offer. That most likely came from his childhood, where he was an immigrant from Italy. Nothing was ever handed to him. He had to work for everything he had done. He had to work to learn English, he had to work to earn enough money to eat, and he had to work to start his oil business. Maybe that’s why I’m confused as to why he left me with the mansion in Georgia. If father were to give me something, I would have to prove to him that I deserved it, and I can’t recall anything I’ve done recently for him to give me this. However, I truly do not mind him doing this. As I sit here and write this, my mind is racing As I think of the things I can explore and do. I feel as though I am a child again.
However, I do long for some company in this large space. Living in silence, with only my thoughts to comfort me, doesn’t bring me much comfort. A monster seems to live inside my mind, telling me evil things. However, if I busy myself with other things, it counters those thoughts.
March 19- As far as I can recall, my subconscious has never been kind to me. Nightmares would plague my sleep as a child, and my parents were very concerned over my well being. They would send me to therapists whom they would call the “best,” but nothing seemed to aid my ails. Every night, I would have more and more nightmares, until it stopped. I did have one more nightmare, though, before they stopped. I would be walking in a forest somewhere, and I would constantly be checking behind me, almost as though I was being followed. I would keep walking, until I got to a lake. All my surroundings were barren. I would stare at the lake for a time, and then I would be pushed in, by an unknown assailant. Then I would wake up in a cold, and clammy sweat. Looking back on it, I can’t find what was so terrifying about that dream, but I found it to be terrifying at the time.
Well, I don’t have much else to say. I have to get acquainted with my father’s house.
March 23- I met someone today, at a local market. His name was Francis Drake, after the famous English vice admiral. He was a charming and handsome man, and I couldn’t help but to like him. He had the bluest of eyes, well groomed hair, and a good sense of humor. I guess you could say he was a perfect man. We familiarized fairly quickly, he telling me about his home, the sweeping plains of Nebraska, and me telling him about my father, my new home, and many other things. We conversed for what seemed like ages, until finally, we departed. I do hope I see him again.
This reminds me: I need to speak with mother soon. I know she must be awfully worried about me, me with all that empty space. I’ll write her a letter, and I’ll tell her how she shouldn’t worry, that I’m enjoying Georgia and my newfound space just fine.
April 8- Sorry I haven’t been writing in these old journals of mine, I’ve just been busy with other things. First, I have been cleaning the house. It was just so dusty before. I remember back when I was a child, my father would hire maids to clean up the house. I would see them going all over the place, dusting, sweeping, and many other assortment of things. I did that, but only in the places I spend most of my time, which includes the front room, my bedroom, and near the fireplace. It took several days to do that, and I was aching most of the time. And second, I’ve been seeing Francis more and more. I had dinner at his house, a dinner which he had made for me. We take walks around town, in which he tells me of his dreams of exploring the world, of going to Europe, of discovering new species of animal. I would tell him of my longing to become a novelist, my father’s business, and my love of art and painting. At the mentioning of art, he told me about his art collection. I beamed when he would talk about his collecting of Camille Pissarro’s works, which he had gotten off of a bet, and collecting Winslow Homer’s works. He then took me to his home, where he showed me each of those things.
I then took him to my house, which was only a few miles away, and showed him my colossal front yard, and my garden, in which I grew many different flowers. He was very much enchanted by the orchids I had. He would set there, staring at it, asking me multiple questions about them. I then showed him my American Elm tree, and he began to climb it, beckoning me to join him. “Abigail!” he would scream, “The view is absolutely beautiful!”
I would stand there just smiling, and stand my ground. He then got down, and said, “Well, at least I tried.”
I had a great time with him, and many others.
April 10- I have taken a break from painting to write that I have been informed that America has just entered the war over east. I immediately went to Francis’ home, and found him not to be there. I panicked, and went to town, looking for him. He was nowhere to be found. I went home, and worried myself sick. Then, I calmed myself down. I went to paint, and that leads me to here. I’m still worried, but he may just be out of town. He’s just out of town.
April 21- I’m here, writing, while trying to control the overload of emotions I am having right now. I’ve received word that Francis… is no longer living. That’s all I can say right now.
April 24- Now that I am calm, I can tell you the story. They found his body, near their post, in the lake. It was categorized as a suicide. The service is tomorrow, and I’m not sure if I will be attending.
April 27- I did not attend the service. In the past week, I’ve been wandering around my house like a ghoul, not sure of what to do. I tore apart the painting I was working on. That painting was for him. It was for him. Why did this have to happen? He was my only friend. My only friend. Why did he hurt me like this? Doesn’t he know I have no one else? Did he ever care?
April 28- I saw someone lurking in the garden this morning, and he shockingly looked like Francis. I promptly went to my room, locked the door, and rocked.
I assured myself that it was just in my head. It was just you mourning.
April 30- I’ve been having nightmares, recently. They’re all the same one. The one I had as a child.
I’m walking across my front yard, barefoot, with heavy breathing, and my heart racing. I looked towards the forest of trees near my home, and began to run. I ran through the branches in my way, I ran through anything in my path. I was sobbing, and I finally stopped at the edge of a lake. Everything around me was barren, all the trees I ran through were gone. I slowly stepped in, one foot at a time, getting deeper and deeper, until I was completely submerged.
I woke up, in a cold and clammy sweat, just like when I was a child. I’ve been pacing around my house, and I’ve been writing in this journal, afraid to go back to sleep. I keep hearing footsteps in my house, very soft footsteps, and I would hear them in an almost musical way. They would go one two, one two, then they’d stop. I’m scared. I’m afraid.
May 1- I’ve been seeing that man more and more. I’m almost certain that it’s Francis. He won’t leave. He won’t leave. He’s dead. He’s dead. Why isn’t he dead?
May 2- I’ve had it. I’m done. I’m exhausted. I’ve had no sleep, and Francis won’t leave. Paranoia won’t leave my mind, and I’m afraid. For the first time in my life, I’m afraid. I’ve been planning it for a while. Since Francis died in fact. I’ll carry it out tonight. Perhaps I’ll find peace and happiness then. This is my last journal entry, May 2, 1917. Good night.