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    “But what if I cut myself?” I asked Freddie, anxiety colouring my voice a warbling grey. That’s how Sarah described my anxiety.

    He laughed. “Seriously, Lal? How have you not done this already... you're fourteen! You are chopping chicken. People have been doing this for thousands of years... imagine how cavemen did it, with no sharp knives! You'll be fine.”

    I looked at him with my ‘but-knives-are-scary’ face and he sighed, coming over to help me. Point one to Lal.

    “Fine.You win, idiot.” He rolled his eyes before muttering, “you have to start doing this on your own.”

    Fat chance, brother. They won't let me near so much as a plastic fork now, let alone a chopping knife. But I digress.
    He put his hands over mine. One was on the knife, gripping it tightly, while the other was on the slimy flesh, firmly pressing to ensure the meat lay still on the chopping board. Slash! I brought the knife down...

    …just as Sarah slid into the room.

    I have been asked so many times how it happened. I think Sarah came sliding into the kitchen, because she liked the sound it made, and knocked me. That's what I told mum, dad, the policeman, and the nice lady at the hospital reception desk.They didn’t believe me.

    There was a lot of blood. I see it now, drenching my hands, swallowing Freddie's hand, biting the other.Sarah asked why red paint was coming from Freddie's arm. I told her he was getting ready their finger painting session. She laughed and clapped.
    She asked me why he was asleep on the floor. I said he was very tired but had left her a present, and I handed her the special new hand shaped brush. It was quite a bit larger than her own hand and was, essentially, useless; the deep, crimson paint didn't absorb into it, as it would a sponge dabber, but rather, ran off,as though it were waterproof. Who needs a waterproof paintbrush?

    Mum came home.

    She didn't like Sarah's hand painting and wouldn't stop screaming.While I thought the grass was, perhaps, too red, and there were no real shapes involved, it was still rather rude to scream! Particularly because of Sarah's synaesthesia; who knew what images, smells or sounds her painting drew up in her mind! Sarah put her hand inside one of the prints, as though to give a high five, but her fingers barely reached the first knuckle.

    I miss Sarah. I am not allowed to see her. Or mum. Or anyone.Except the pretty man in the white coat who asks me a lot of questions. How I'm feeling, am I comfortable, why did I kill my brother, am I warm enough?

    I don't know why he asks this. This jacket they have me wear keeps me nice andwarm.32�f�r


    484 Words
    My entry for the Short Story competition!!
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    (Original post by LostInPanda)
    “But what if I cut myself?” I asked Freddie, anxiety colouring my voice a warbling grey. That’s how Sarah described my anxiety.

    He laughed. “Seriously, Lal? How have you not done this already... you're fourteen! You are chopping chicken. People have been doing this for thousands of years... imagine how cavemen did it, with no sharp knives! You'll be fine.”

    I looked at him with my ‘but-knives-are-scary’ face and he sighed, coming over to help me. Point one to Lal.

    “Fine.You win, idiot.” He rolled his eyes before muttering, “you have to start doing this on your own.”

    Fat chance, brother. They won't let me near so much as a plastic fork now, let alone a chopping knife. But I digress.
    He put his hands over mine. One was on the knife, gripping it tightly, while the other was on the slimy flesh, firmly pressing to ensure the meat lay still on the chopping board. Slash! I brought the knife down...

    …just as Sarah slid into the room.

    I have been asked so many times how it happened. I think Sarah came sliding into the kitchen, because she liked the sound it made, and knocked me. That's what I told mum, dad, the policeman, and the nice lady at the hospital reception desk.They didn’t believe me.

    There was a lot of blood. I see it now, drenching my hands, swallowing Freddie's hand, biting the other.Sarah asked why red paint was coming from Freddie's arm. I told her he was getting ready their finger painting session. She laughed and clapped.
    She asked me why he was asleep on the floor. I said he was very tired but had left her a present, and I handed her the special new hand shaped brush. It was quite a bit larger than her own hand and was, essentially, useless; the deep, crimson paint didn't absorb into it, as it would a sponge dabber, but rather, ran off,as though it were waterproof. Who needs a waterproof paintbrush?

    Mum came home.

    She didn't like Sarah's hand painting and wouldn't stop screaming.While I thought the grass was, perhaps, too red, and there were no real shapes involved, it was still rather rude to scream! Particularly because of Sarah's synaesthesia
    Do you know what, I loved this creepy pasta feel to this story.
    As messed up and crazy as it is, this is totally my thing. Loved it c: Poor Freddie, though.

    Only thing i'm annoyed about is the synaesthesia, purely because I'd planned to include a character with synaesthesia in my own story!

    But nevermind that, I really enjoyed this.
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    (Original post by ZiggyStarDust_)
    Do you know what, I loved this creepy pasta feel to this story.
    As messed up and crazy as it is, this is totally my thing. Loved it c: Poor Freddie, though.

    Only thing i'm annoyed about is the synaesthesia, purely because I'd planned to include a character with synaesthesia in my own story!

    But nevermind that, I really enjoyed this.
    Thanks!! Sorry about that :/ I wrote it going through a phase of reading The Secret Series by Pseudonymous Bosch and found it really interesting, I couldn't help myself!
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    (Original post by LostInPanda)
    Thanks!! Sorry about that :/ I wrote it going through a phase of reading The Secret Series by Pseudonymous Bosch and found it really interesting, I couldn't help myself!
    I adore that series (!).

    Can't say I blame you, I remember reading the Secret Series when I was a kid - it was so good, maan
 
 
 
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