Story thing 

Clutching onto the frayed rope, a once beautiful music box that plays it’s tune for me once again, the old sad sound of the grandfather’s hourly chime, my hands sting from the sharp edges of the rope, I must hold on. That’s my present thought, the one that may very well be my last. That is, unless I decide whether I want to give up or if I want to survive. 

Dong dong dong. The chime of the grandfather clock somehow repeats itself. Somehow it’s already been 30 minutes. It’s half past 2 in the morning. I don’t dare look down, because what if there’s nothing beneath me? And if I look up, who knows what I will see. It’s not worth it, not until I decide to give up or to continue living. 

A strand of the rope frays, there’s barely anything holding me up anymore. I can hear the rope stripping itself from the next strand. I don’t know who I am, I have no idea who I am, if I die it won’t matter much to me. I’ve got no idea as to who I am, but if there are others up there, will they miss me? I have no idea what is up there either, or down there. But if I am going to make a choice- the last rope is stripping itself and I don’t know what I’m doing until I’m all of a sudden yelling. Yelling that I want to live. And that’s when everything changes, I’m surrounded by a desolated city, one that looks to have been burnt to the ground, and isolated. 

My hand is resting on top of a small metallic chain, one with a locket. The chain is scarred with rust, looking to me as if it was slowly being eaten at by the hot smoldering flames. The top of the locket has the word Steph inscribed onto it. Is that my name? Or was this a child’s locket before she died in the flames? I dared to open the locket, I should have expected that there wasn’t going to be a picture left after the fire. 

The music box began to sound again, singing a song of death. Of loneliness. 
Just a random thing I decided to write. Probably end up being for creative writing.


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