Oh, and, as you can see, this story has no name; if you think of something, put t in the comments below, please and thank you.
Short Story (without a name)
Unedited and unrevised version
I never saw it coming. No one did.
I mean, we always knew she was mental and crazy, but she’s been pretty normal lately, docile, and nobody wanted to break the peacefulness that settled over the house. We never suspected a thing. And it cost us.
I just came back from our worst game ever—we lost by a land slide to the Kanyon High Cougars—and was surprised and relived that my brothers weren’t waiting at school to tease me about it. I headed home, taking the long way, all the while dreading what kind of humiliation they had planned for me for losing the game. Now that I look back, I would have done anything to have stayed in that moment, where I worried only about trivial things.
I arrived home half an hour or fifthteen minutes before sun down, and sensed something strange. You know that sixth sense that warns you when something bad was about to happen? Yeah, that’s what I felt, and ignored.
I walked up the porch steps of the white and blue Victorian style house—built 2005—and found the door to be locked. I knocked, no one answered. This was nothing new or weird because my brothers and I did it all the time to her. Guess I was due for a little pay back. And our parents were out of town for the week, so we wouldn’t get in trouble.
“Hey, open up!” I yelled as I knocked again. I had given up and was prepared to knock the door down or spend the night outside when I heard the click. I grabbed the knob before someone could lock it again and went in.
The smell was the first thing that greeted me. It was coppery and musty. I could never have guessed what it was then.
Then she appeared from behind the door.
“Hello, big brother,” my nine-year-old little sister said to me. Her small, timid voice betraying nothing of what I later learned had occurred.
I had not closed the door, and the setting sun could still be seen; that might have been what saved me. She raised the knife, sunlight bouncing off of it, in a ready-to-strike position. “Let’s play a game,” she took a step forward. Her voice was no longer timid. Instead, it was now louder, an octave higher and showing the signs of her schizophrenia. “The others didn’t want to play with me.”
What happened next was nowhere near heroic. Not at all. I was simply not raised that way, and neither was she.
I turned and ran. I did not need to stay; I already knew where they were and what happened to them—to her otherbig brothers. I had the visuals in my head; I did not need nor want to see it with my own eyes. I ran through the neighbourhood, not making any sounds. I was scared—okay, frightened—and nonplussed. I was always this way, a ‘fraidy-cat. Coward. Though my public persona never showed it, and the mask eventually stuck and I pretended to be this hero who loved his sister. It was all fake.
I wasn’t sure what happened next. The sky grew dark. I couldn’t see, then, I felt pain and collapsed to the ground. Then I felt nothing, either.
. . . . .
One week later
I hit a lamp post and passed out. How lame is that? I bumped into a lamp post and passed out. Told you I was no hero, and the evidences were right in front of me. The three coffins, one of them kid size, being lowered to the ground could attest to that.
But what did I do? I pretended.
I let some tears fall. I kept quiet. And I said the eulogy that I did not write. They fell for it, ate it all up. This is the mask that I would hide behind for the rest of my life—and I was vain enough that I was okay with that.
Hiding behind a mask.