Pale, Luminescent Hand...

• Roma Nicholas, Grade 10
• Short Story
• 2012

She walks down a hall; a hall so familiar, yet not. She remembers these walls. These yellow, yellow walls. But somehow, they look different- so, so different.



She comes to a door; a door so familiar, yet not. She remembers this door.



The rose pattern.



The gold handle.



This rose and gold door.



Her hand reaches out. It’s a pale hand; a luminescent hand. She knows there is something wrong with this hand. She knows. But what is wrong with this hand? She knows, somewhere inside, she knows. But this place that she knows, she hasn’t found yet.



Not yet.



Not quite yet.



The door- it opens with a creak. This creak, it echoes.



Creak.



Creak.



Creak.



She looks inside; inside the door. She sees a room, a room with a bed. She sees a bed that’s surrounded by gossamer silk. It’s familiar, yet not, this gossamer silk.



She walks forward. Her feet leave no marks. Her steps make no sound. This room is still, this room is quite. She feels isolated, in this quiet, still room.



She knows something is wrong, she knows. But she keeps walking. Walking to the bed, the one surrounded by gossamer silk.



She reaches the bed, the bed that’s surrounded. She feels afraid. She feels uncertain. What is behind this gossamer silk?



Her hand; her pale luminescent hand, reaches out. She watches as her hand pushes the material; pushes the material out of the way.



She sees a girl, a beautiful girl. This girl, she looks peaceful. Her sheer white dress and her paling blue lips. She thinks about how perfect this girl would look, if only she had colour. Colour in her ash face.



This girl; she looks familiar, yet not. This beautiful girl, with her lifeless form, looks so cold and alone.



She looks up, away from the girl. She sees a mirror. This mirror, it looks magical. She looks into the mirror and stares. She expects her heart to beat faster. She’s shocked because she’s realized something. She’s realized that she can’t feel her heart. She can’t feel it at all. There is no beat in her body, no warmth.



She stares at the mirror. Her face- her striking face, looks exactly like that girl. That beautiful, lifeless girl on the bed.



She feels that place open. That place deep inside that she couldn’t find. That place; it opens. Memories bombard her, and the past threatens to destroy her. She wants to cry, cry so much she can’t feel anymore. But she can’t because she’s not really here. Because that beautiful, lonely body on the bed- it’s her. She’s dead.