Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-39080011-20190412175455

Here is a story of mine, "My Dear Cyra". Please let me know how I can improve this story, and how well/bad I did.

''Stumbling backwards. I fall, experiencing a sinking yet rising feeling in my gut. Fear causes a bitter taste in my mouth. The ground is close, and I can’t stop myself…''

I wake up in a cold sweat with the dream fresh in my mind and the feeling of falling from such a height still there. Terror claws at my gut and I try to calm my frantic, panicky breathing by taking deep breaths. I didn’t fall, it was just a dream, I tell myself.

My room feels too closed in, yet too exposed at the same time. I rush to the lightswitch and turn it on.

As my heart races, I walk to the kitchen, hoping that a glass of water will calm me down. I fill a glass with water and take a sip. It doesn't do much to remedy my situation though. I still feel tense and anxious.

A scream pierces the uneasy silence. I drop the glass, and it shatters. I then realize which glass I was using.

It was her favorite cup, the one I got her on our last trip out of the country. Our last trip…

The cup was broken, broken beyond repair, just like my life. I pick up the pieces, the glass cutting my fingers. The pain keeps my mind away from the dream, and for that I am thankful.

I throw away the pieces, my mind numb. I had a few hours before I had to go to work, so I go over to the living room, sit on the couch, and flip on the tv.

Anything to take my mind off her.

''Darkness. The inside of a casket. I push up. The lid lifts, and soil fills the previously empty space. I keep my eyes closed against the earth. Pushing through, I make it to the surface, pulling myself out of the grave. The moon lights the stones, and I can see the house from here.''

That’s where I’m going.

I wake up. This time, there isn’t the terror, just unease, unlike my dream from the night before.

I feel like something’s watching me. I get out of the bed.

Too scared of what might be in the room, I just keep my eyes on what’s ahead of me. The paranoia builds as I go to turn on the light. I flip the switch.

The room remains dark.

I flip the switch on and off. Nothing changes. I begin to panic a little bit. But I can't leave the room, as to go anywhere else, I would have to walk down stairs and risk falling down them.

I feel a cool breeze against my back, from the direction of the window by my bed. That window shouldn’t be open.

I turn around, and there she is.

Her skin is as pale as snow. Shadows trace the skin under her emerald eyes, which look at me without emotion, and without any warmth. Her skin is stretched tight over her bony frame, and gnarled fingers stretch out towards me. Bones jut at strange angles, and one of her feet is twisted. She looks like what she is, a corpse.

But she’s still beautiful.

“Cyra,” I whisper, barely able to talk, tears pooling in my eyes.

My wife stands before me.

She had always had a habit of going as high as she could to watch the sunrise. One day, she was watching from the top of a building and leaning over. She lost balance and fell to her end.

And when she had died, so had a part of me.

She walks towards me with her arms reaching for me. I rush towards her, tears falling. I hold her tight, burying my face in her dress.

Emotion floods me. It hurts to see her like this, emotionless. But it hurts even more to be alone.

Her nails trace my skin, leaving cuts. She bites into my shoulder, and blood flows from the wound.

But I don’t back away. I'm tired of the dreams, the shaking, the constant emptiness without her. It isn't just the house that is empty. It's me. And I want to let go.

I don't wonder why she's doing this or why she's here. Seeing her here, even like this, is better than being alone. Feeling her body against mine and smelling her scent of poppies and earth is worth my flesh.

I grab my gun from one of my dressers. I hold her tighter against me before delivering the shot. I then shoot myself as well.

Now I will be with my dear Cyra, forever.  