Drainpipe (vinski) wrote in the_muses_lair,

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I really can't remember if I posted this here before, but this is a revision of the original anyway.

So like, my friend and I are turning this story into a film. The cast of which features someone rather special to me. >.>
Yep, so if this is a repost of something I've already posted. My appologies. This story was written over 3 years ago.

I really don't actually care if any of you give feedback, heh. :P

I listen to the rain beat upon the steel roof. As always I find it somewhat relaxing. It helps to dull out the sounds from outside and the excessively loud and repetitive stereo system from next door. When it rains I can just lie and think. I think about the world we live in, how technology rules our lives
I’m sitting here, thinking about the state of affairs in the world. The way mankind has created a shell from which there is no real escape. I wonder how many other people share these thoughts… How many people out there actually curse this technology that we have created. Anyway, enough for one entry I think. I might go and try to find something to do.

‘Ah, another journal entry done. Now, what could I do?’ I thought to myself absently. ‘I should perhaps go for a walk. But… It’s so wet outside. Hmm, guess I’ll just don the old rain coat.’
So on goes the raincoat, and with a light slam, I am out the door. I shiver slightly as I step into the blistering cold. I see the flickering neon light of The Freshwater, a lively inn across the road, and shudder, remembering that, even such a small, insignificant light, is still part of such a larger technology.

I walk on down the street, hoping to run into someone I know, or someone I don’t, but I could get to know. It is dark out now, getting close to Christmas and has been snowing heavily for a few weeks. Very similar to the circumstances of just over a year ago… Why do I bring up such a thing right now?

I can still remember the screeching tyres. The helplessness I felt as we skidded out of control. I can still hear her screams, the look of absolute horror in her eyes. The lamp post rushing to meet us. The screams of both the tires and my young daughter, mingled together. Then it hit. I couldn't feel anything for what seemed like an eternity. Then, after what could have been a few seconds, or minutes, or hours, I looked over at my daughter, my beloved little girl. Blood seeped from her mouth and nose. Then fear took me, overtook every part of my mortal being.

“Hey! Watch it buddy!” Some man telling me to watch where I’m going snaps me back to the real world. Possibly I should… “Sorry Sir, I wasn’t paying much attention, I’m sorry.” I reply politely. “Ah it’s alright, see ya round.”

I wave and decide to go visit my daughter’s grave. Make sure everything is in order and that it is being properly respected.
I reach her grave – Sarah Jones. 1998 – 2013. Dearly beloved by all, and sorely missed.
The after accident memories come flooding back. The hours of sitting next to her bed, looking at all the life support equipment. Yet seeing her life slipping away. I wonder to myself, “Why!? Why is there all this technology, yet it cannot save one innocent girl’s life?!” I see her breathing lightly. Not deep normal breaths. But light, fairy-like breaths.
I leave, aiming to come back tomorrow…
“I have something for you” – “Huh!? What?! Who are you?” I exclaimed to the strangely familiar man suddenly standing behind me. He simply hands me an envelope and walks away. Written on the envelope. – To Mr Rickard Jones, Father of Sarah Jones…- And in the top corner: “Saint Morrison Private Hospital, Ward 314” – where Sarah died. A large red-wax seal holds it closed.
I don’t open it. Instead, I pocket it and start to wander home.

I step inside my door, sit at my desk and produce the envelope. Inside is a piece of paper with the following written on it.

Dear Father.
I asked the Dr to hand this to you when you really needed it.
I trust it got to you at an appropriate time.

Remember this Father:
I am gone, But you are not. Choose life, father. Don’t dwell on the past. We shall be reunited one day; your time is not yet come.

Love always – Sarah

I smile, attach some sticky tape, and attach it to a page in my journal. Closing the book with a dull thud, I fall into a deep sleep, even as I sit at my desk. Peace coming at last.


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