Natalie Vilotijevic
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Stories (2)
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Death of an Artist
The day I bought my Dad a brand new car, he died. Not the way people say, “I’m dead,” at the end of a very unfunny joke, dead. Dead, he’s never coming back, dead. Cold hands, hard body, one-eye-open—dead. Dead like I watched them carry him down the stairs in a body bag dead. Dead like I went to the funeral and saw my little brother fall to his knees in front of the open casket dead. Dead like the crematorium sent me his remains in a shoe box dead. Dead. I’ll never hear his voice again dead. Dead, dead.
By Natalie Vilotijevic5 years ago in Families
Fate, Free Will, and What Are the Chances You’re Free Friday?
The room was dark, cold—square. It felt lonely and immensely, oppressively sad. As if it carried a weight too heavy for its creaking floorboards. Why it felt this way was not discernible from any single object. It’s not what the room had—but what was missing—that filled it with this all-pervasive sadness that settled upon everything like an early morning mist.
By Natalie Vilotijevic5 years ago in Humans
