SCARY STORY CONTEST
11-14 YEARS CATEGORY
FIRST PLACE
Written by Death
By Cassandra Williams, 12, Port Coquitlam
"Nothing compares to a quiet evening alone."
The Paramore lyrics coursed through her mind as the poison spread through her veins. She lay on her bed and waited for darkness to come, the darkness that would end her pain and suffering for good.
You were brave, she told herself. You lasted through 5 years of it. She let herself lie; the last thing she heard would need to be good. You can't get into a good second life with bad thoughts.
She thought of her mom, who was dead. Her dad, who was a malevolent drunk. He wouldn't miss her, except maybe as a punching bag.
Yes, her body was coated in bruises, inflicted by the brute force of her father. Arms lined with scars, inflicted with a pocket knife whenever she felt the need. It was a relief, for a moment to feel the pain she kept pent up to be released. The knife had been confiscated the week prior by her English teacher. She had gone mad at the way her emotions became stuck inside her. It drove her over the edge, it drove her to this.
The bottle of poison sat on her cousin's nightstand, sending a putrid odour around the room. Visiting meant access to harming items, to helpful items. Items that could lead to proof that her father was the monster he pretended not to be. For her body to be found and taken care of.
She felt her limbs grow heavy as her breathing and blood flow stopped, and then everything went black.
Eliza looked up from reading, her eyes scanning those of her classmates. He teacher collected himself and spoke.
"Thank you, Eliza, for that wonderfully written story," he dragged out.
The class slowly clapped, still in shock that the most cheerful-seeming student had written the words that had just been read to them.
Eliza went and sat at her desk, her multi-pierced ears making small clanging sounds whenever she moved. The Grade 7 girl doodled in her notebook for the rest of class.
A month later, Eliza received a note in the mail. "How did you know my story?" Was all it said. Ignoring it, assuming it was a prank, she went back to her room and drew a bloody knife on a canvas.
Another month passed, and another note arrived. "Why draw my knife? It cut my wrist, not yours," it said. She was slightly creeped out, the only knife she ever drew had been a month before.
One week passed and Eliza was walking home alone from school one day, when an ominous shadow of a figure passed by her. She turned and saw a tall girl, about 16 years old with pale skin and purple veins.
"Wh-who are you?" Eliza stuttered.
"I am she," The figure paused. "And you shall become me,"
Eliza never had a chance to ask what was meant, for the figure disappeared. Eliza fell to the hard concrete, dead and white as a ghost.
