Madness & Morrison

This is a story I wrote a couple of years ago - and just found on my computer. I rather like the way it starts out, but I'm not 100% pleased with the ending. I think I can justify this by making it clear that I wrote this at age 13 though, can't I??

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I've never really been chased before - nor have I been scared. I don't bend to horror stories or films, they never seem realistic enough to scare me. I've lived a quiet life in a large house in the American suburbs all my life, never too much excitement, never too much action in general. I've never been chased outside the playground, and whenever I was it was in play. I grew up in a good neighbourhood with polite children and housewives, and spent all my time either on the playground with my friends or, as I got older, going through my late uncle's record collection. We kept all his records in big boxes in the cellar, and I could go through them, listening to them on our old squeaky turn table, for hours on end. I especially developed a passion for The Doors, falling in love with the voice of Jim Morrison, a man who became my biggest idol. I'd listen to their albums for hours every day, and even if it happened long before I was even born, the death of Morrison effected me in every way. When I was on my own, I'd even go as far as crying over it - but only on my own, because let's face it - boys don't cry. It was just the fact that it was impossible for me ever to meet him, to see them perform, to listen to them live. I'd tried fooling myself by closing my eyes and putting on their live albums, waving my old Zippo lighter in the air at slower songs, but never had I succeeded to fill that empty space in my heart that had become as I grew fonder and fonder of The Doors. By the time I was 15, it had become almost unbearable. I knew music shouldn't affect me as much as it did, and it shouldn't rule my life in the way it did, but whatever I did to detach myself from this obsession, I'd always return in less than a day. There was just something so appealing and alluring about the old tunes that didn't let me escape. On my 16th birthday I was sat in my bed, surrounded by posters of Jim Morrison and my parents and younger sister, opening my presents. There were less gifts than my last birthday, and I wondered what kind of big present I would receive in stead of the mound of smaller presents that normally infested the end of my bed. A white package was pressed into my hands by my eager little sister, and I opened it, wondering. A small book fell out in my hands as I ripped off the end, and I turned it over to reveal the front page, which read "The Essential Guidebook for a Trip to Paris". I smiled, confused, as I had never expressed any specific interest in Paris. And then, as my parents looked at me excitedly, awaiting a reaction, it dawned on me. The grave of Jim Morrison was in a Parisian cemetary. I couldn't believe it.

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