The Suicide Note

It was all a lie..




I got to the last step, which groaned as I stepped onto it. In front of me was a large, dark purple door. Its handle was dusty and the pattern embedded had begun to fade. I put my hand on it and pushed gently. I looked inside. The room was quite large, and it looked as though nobody had been in it for quite a few years. My heart beat faster as I stepped inside. Old wooden planks were used as a floor and light seeped through the little cracks from the staircase below. What caught my attention the most was a large, oval glass window. It was stained glass with bright, luminous colours that reflected the whole room. The picture was of a sunset over green hills. It was lined with black led and cobwebs had grown over it, although light still managed to get through, and almost brought the glass window to life.

By looking at the layers of dust everywhere, I understood that this room had been neglected for many years, maybe decades. A four poster bed was in the corner of the room, it had purple bed sheets and grey woolly blankets too. I walked forwards and towards a wooden desk. A small jewellery box stood in the middle of the desk. It was gold and lined with jewels and beads. I touched it lightly with the tips of my fingers, and opened it up. Inside, a small porcelain dancer was stood boldly, and twirled around whilst music played softly. The music was creepy and I was close to shutting it, but the beauty of it mesmerised me. On the desk, there was a pen and paper laid out. I looked within the draws to find many handwritten letters and notes. I took them out and put them in the bag to read them in my room. I looked on the back of one of them; it was addressed to Lily Rose, in fancy writing that had slightly faded.

 Suddenly, I heard the dripping noise again. It didn’t bother me, I was just curious to what it was. I began to hear footsteps, and I panicked, not knowing whether I should be in here or not. I looked towards the glass window again and saw a figure. A silhouette. I edged out of the door.

“I’m sorry!” It whispered; it was a feminine voice and rather like my own. It was as though she was crying. The whisper was like a scream and it echoed around the room. I tripped over my own feet as fright struck through me like a lightning bolt. It’s my imagination. Just my imagination. Slamming the door, I ran down the stairs, my socks slipped on the flat carpet and I tumbled to the bottom. I hit my head on the floor and laid there for a minute whilst I tried to recall what had just happened. I then realised, I didn’t see any of that. It was a memory.

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