Annie

Okay, so I'm changing this story because we want to put our stories together to create a book. It's not gonna be published, but I don't want it on the internet. This story also for that class, but I'm not planning on putting it in our book. I like "Annie" better. The first one, I mean. I'm calling this Annie too because I can't think of anything else right now. So, yeah, that's what's gonna be on here. Sorry if you didn't like the change, but, oh well. Hope you enjoy it anyway.
Love,
Asyah

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Head to toe, hair included, they are in black, except for their pale hands and faces. The blue walls, ochre furniture, and bright light in the room do not make the scene happy; in fact, in a way, they make it worse. The oldest woman sits on the leftmost chair. Her normally stern face is pulled in a tired frown, and the look in her eyes betrays her earlier tears, which she has, for the moment, finished shedding. A crumpled handkerchief is held in her hand as proof of her mourning. Her dark hair is pulled up in a high bun, but it is not as neat as it should be. She coughs and wheezes quietly at almost regular intervals.
One of the girls, the one rightmost to her mother, looks sympathetically her way, then looks back at her younger sister. She wants to cry, but while the younger girl is crying, she cannot. It is hurting her to keep these tears inside; it takes immense effort, and she is not sure how long she can do this. Her heart feels like a time bomb. She will explode at any moment, and she has no clue when. She puts an arm around the other girl. “Giselle,” she whispers, but she cannot think of anything to say afterwards. She wants to tell her it will be okay, but how can she, when she is about to burst into tears again at any moment? It will not be okay, not for a while. Not only will they have no source of income or anyone to provide for them for a long time, but they have also lost the person dearest to their hearts. Even their mother, who is more ill than he ever was, has lived longer than him. And while she is grateful for her, she feels like so many things inside of her are breaking that will never be repaired.
Giselle has finished bawling, but the tears still have not stopped. She tries thinking of good things, but they only make her miss him more. She has never thought something like this would happen to her; it only seems like the kind of thing one hears but does not experience. Of course, just about everyone experiences this, but she doesn’t think about that now. All she can think of is how much she loved him, what a good man he was. She thinks of her childhood and how, even when he was tired, he would listen to her chatter excitedly to him, or when he would play with her right after he had finished work. He has always had time for her, no matter what. Even as she is growing older older, he has always been there. But now he is not. He is gone, gone for good. A sob escapes her throat, and she hears her sister say her name. She does not respond for a long time, but then she mumbles “Darla” through clenched teeth in an effort to keep another sob from intruding. They sit there, the three mourning ladies, together and so alone.

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