This is something that I had to write for my writers craft class. I had to keep it under a certain amount of words, so I could not add as much detail as I wanted to, but since I was restricted I tried my best. I wrote this within the period it was assinged, so it wasn't too hard to, but the writing restriction was a big challenge to me.
It was two fifty nine in the morning, and Johnathon Edgar O'Neil uneasily awaits for the clock to tick towards three in the morning. It happens at the same time every night for the past sixteen years, and goes on for roughly a hour. It comes from the attic and each night he hopes it will stop, but a part of him knows that is pointless to think that way, it always happens no matter what he thinks. The big hand strikes the twelve on the clock, now the most horrible part of his day happens. There is a high pitched piercing noise that rings through his ears that happens for only a moment, then he starts to hear the soft moaning cries of a woman that is begging for help.
Once it started he crawled into a ball and tried to ignore the crying, but no matter how many times he tries to muffle the noise it still stays the same volume. Tonight is particularly worse because it has been sixteen years since it happened; sixteen years since he found it; sixteen years since he hid it from the world. Something about this night was different though, something in him snapped on this night, and he could not handle the cries of the woman, like he usually put up with it for all those years. He arose from his bed, even though every single muscle in his body demanded for him to stay in the same position as he was before. In direct defiance to what his body wanted, he started walking towards the door, that if opened would lead to the stairs. Those stairs that went up towards the attic, and that is where the chest waited to be opened.
Johnathon kept repeating to himself that “everything will be alright” in a calm reassuring tone, but he quickly realized though things will not get better, they will only get worse. With each step he took, the cries started to get louder, and louder. His hope to get to the chest started to fall as the cries started to climb in volume. He opened the door silently one centimetre, and then the cries suddenly turned into light screams, and loud cries. With each step he took up the spiralling wooden stairs that lead to his attic, the cries seemed to become less human, and more demonic. Tears started to run down Jonathon's face as he made his way to the door that lead into the attic, and he could only think of thoughts of regret as the door entered his field of vision. He stood in front of the white attic door, and the only thing he wanted was to leave his house. He remembered though that he had a purpose, Johnathon had to open that chest, and end his plight. Once that thought entered his head he forcefully opened the door, because he was no longer ending this nuisance, he was on a quest to end personal suffering. Now the cries from before, became screams of agony, and horrible suffering. His eyes darted towards the big brown chest with the gold trim, that was covered in sixteen years worth of dust. Then with a few solid strides he stood in front of the chest, as if he was confronting a long hated dictator. Then he reached for the old yellow envelope that laid of the left side of the chest. He grabbed it with one furious motion, while doing so all of the dust flew into the air; he ripped it open and grabbed the old black key that laid inside. The screams were so loud now that his ears felt like they were going to explode, so once he got a firm grip on the key, he shoved it inside the old brass lock. Then he turned it once to the left, and vigorously opened the chest. Johnathon collapsed on the ground, and all of the screaming stopped. He laid on the ground long enough for all the dust that was thrown off the chest to settle on him. Then with a few deep breaths, he rose up and looked inside the chest. Then he remembered that is was sixteen years since it happened; sixteen years since he found it; sixteen years since he hid it from the world. It was a single sheet of paper, titled “good bye world”, it was his mothers suicide letter. Johnathon Edgar O'Neil held that paper that was hidden from the world sixteen years ago, and the only thing he could do was cry.
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