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 had expected to feel fulfilled by visiting Morrison's grave, as it would be the closest I'd ever come to meeting him, but something didn't feel right. It wasn't before I was laid in my bed, in complete darkness, it dawned on me that if I couldn't find rest in him being buried in Paris, Morrison could impossibly be happy either. He may be dead, but he deserved to be somewhere he wanted to be. How I could change it, I didn't know, but I knew for certain I had to do something. The wind outside the window was howling, slapping noisily against the brick walls of the apartment building. It had been storming, but the rain had quietened down and only the strong wind was left. I don't remember how I came to the conclusion I did, but suddenly I was down on the street, racing against the wind in an unknown direction. I knew where I was going, but I had no idea how to get there from where I was. I figured I should find a metro station and have a look at the map and in a city like Paris finding a station is no problem. I turned a corner, saw the metropolitan style of a station and flew down the steps to the platform. Gasping for breath I traced the map, made my way through the underground tunnels that define Paris, and sat down heavily in a plastic chair when I reached the correct platform. The station was almost empty, only a few drunk teenagers and a gypsy shared the platform with me. The train came shortly after I had sat down, and I got on. The two drunk girls in heels were sat in the other end of the compartment, clutching at each other and screaming of laughter over something pointless, I was sure. I looked out of the window, unsure if the train was going through a tunnel or if the night was simply so dark it looked like it. I looked at my wristwatch. 02:52. I started working out the time difference, before I remembered that I had changed my watch earlier that day. It was now running on Paris time. I was so in my own thoughts that I lost track of where I was, and started panicking. This was a stupid idea, and now I'd missed my station, and I should really just turn around. So why did I keep going forward? I got off the train as soon as it stopped - at what looked like Pére Lachaise. Hey - this couldn't be too far off; Morrison was buried in Pére Lachaise cemetery! I ran up the steps, to the street. I was stood on a square, and I started walking completely on instinct. I walked for a few minutes before I saw something white in the distance. It was quite a way away, and the air was thick and damp, but I decided to go towards it. I came closer, and realised that it was the gates to the cemetery. This trip wasn't failed, and I wouldn't feel fulfilled if I didn't finish it. I owed it to Morrison to bring him home.

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