Cynthia Melchor
Stories (2)
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Reborn
The bushels of apples on the front steps meant fall was here; Mrs. Padley was adamant on having them on the steps the moment she saw her leaves begin to wither. When the apples themselves began to rot, she would have me replace them with fresh new ones, a waste I had to bear with for months. The children that lived on our street took them once and even managed to throw a few at her window. Needless to say, at the ripe age of 37, Mrs. Padley almost landed in a hospital bed from the blood-curdling anger. Her mood was unlike something you've ever imagined; she had a nasty attitude, one only her husband, Mr. Padley, could understand. The man stood taller than the front door frame, however tall that may be. He was a docile man and spent half his lifetime in the basement working on something we were never allowed to see. He loved his wife- but would only show it once every blue moon, and although he loved her, I cannot imagine it was easy for him to like her. Her unbearable demeanor made it difficult, and as a result, I would often catch home staring at her in awe and confusion by the kind of woman he married. They both lived in their own world, one where their designer clothes and monthly botox injections hide their seemingly dull lives. Their children, who are supposed to be their pride and joy, were only extra accessories to their lives. Judy and baby Matthew exist in another world, quiet with every fantasy a child could imagine. They were both delicate things; Judy was beautiful and looked exactly like her mother before the Botox and botched surgeries. Baby Mathew was far too young for me to notice any resemblance to his parents. When I came into their home, I felt like I was already a part of the family. I was given a room just below theirs and the jurisdiction of the children; they were to be kept amused, fed, and raised with proper manners. At that moment, I fell in love with the Padley family, and from then on, I worked hard to keep my place in our home. This particular day was a Monday, my most favorite day of the week. My first task is to wake the children and get them ready for school, but before them, I make myself presentable with clean shoes, a clean uniform, and a clean face. Judy is easier to wake up; she skitters around the hall for half a moment and then runs to the bathroom to wash her tiny teeth. As I walk to wake baby Mathew, I hear that dreadful noise again, a hissing noise that seems to come from the walls. I've tried to tell Mr. Padley, but to no avail; instead, he grunts and walks down to his basement. After breakfast, the noise disappears, and living in this house becomes more manageable again. Everything would have kept going like it has for the past five years, but Mr. Padley's obvious affair and the children's distress have gotten the best of me, and today I will make everything well again. Peace will be restored. After Judy is dropped off at school and Mrs. Padely has gone to work, I am left alone with Mr. Padley and baby Mathew. I chop my veggies and prepare to boil some water for tonight's surprise dinner. When that was done, I walked to the shed in the backyard and grabbed an ax; I admired the tool, thinking what a fantastic job I did sharpening it last week. Before I knew it, I was standing in front of the basement door; I reached to turn the doorknob, but a rush of dizziness rushed to my head, and I almost fell backward, but I caught myself on the countertop before I hit the floor. Suddenly I felt giddy, and I laughed to myself, what a mess I am making of this situation, "if it's to be done, it is to be done right," I say out loud. I open the door and step in; there he is, what a ridiculous man. I made no attempt to hide my tool when I saw his face; I knew I was making the right decision, but for whatever reason, I began to cry, I cry, and I cry, and It made me full of consuming anger that makes the tips of my toes twitch. I launch towards him, and he screams; I stop. "Now, now, Mr. Padely, please do not be difficult. I see what you do when you are alone, unlike your wife, see everything you do, but please don't be scared; there is nothing to be worried about anymore. I will make sure you cause this family no more harm." I launch at him again, and this time it feels easier; this is the right thing to do. ———
By Cynthia Melchor4 years ago in Horror
Taken
An orphaned world, abandoned by the luck of man, love, and money. Gone. To believe a word that created war and famine over these insidious things ever existed is as far-fetched as I will make it sound. The last day was clear and sunny; I remember that much. I felt a cold chill and looked down to see my ice cream begin to melt, dripping away from my hand onto my red-colored toenails; what a lovely color. I can almost picture it again. I try to before my memory escapes me and leaves me orphaned as well. The laughter of children, the crashing of waves, the ring on my finger. I had it all, had. The president was killed first, of course, an awful cliche. The capital was next, and like a simple bowling game, they were all gone in one blow. Nobody knew who they were, only that they were flesh and blood like us. Humans? Friends? not quite. They took our water and our food and our children, no more laughter. The world is at peace now; we no longer fight over trivial things, no more waiting hours in grocery lines, no more petty fights over parking spaces; everything is equal now. Those few who still believed their old world could be restored were taken away and never seen again. The elderly, too, served their function in our society; you are no longer viable after 60. For as long as the old world lived, reproduction was the goal; that is no longer our objective. Instead, we strive to build peace; that is why he is here. We do not know his name; it is not important; he watches. The days were glorious, bright, and peaceful, no more chaos, no more innocents dying, or so I thought.
By Cynthia Melchor5 years ago in Fiction
