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A Short Story : The Story Of The Story

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When I first walked into Cook’s Coffeehouse, I called out aloud, to see if anyone was there to help me with my situation. Eventually, a young woman walks towards me and asks angrily, “Why are you here so early? We haven’t even opened the shop for the day. It is too early in the morning.” “I’m sorry, my parents died this morning, and I am left to figure out my life on my own.” “I’m sorry about your parents. My friend, her name was Polly Logan, died recently. People are saying that it is a fever. Do you know if your parents died or a fever?” “My parents were diagnosed by Dr. Benjamin Rush himself. He bled both my mother and father, and said, “I will send someone over, they shall be sent over every day for two more weeks, and to take ten ounces of blood a day.” I started again, “Sadly, before the end of the first week, my mother was swallowed by the inky darkness that is insanity itself. Her common sense fled, and she broke into a neighbor’s home. And my brother-” “You have a brother?” “Had a brother. Being the curious person he was, followed my mother into the house that she was invading. The man who lived there was a sailor, and his name is a fairly common one- John. He himself, says that in the middle of the night that he heard a sound, got out of bed, and grabbed his gun. He says that he heard someone coming up the stairs, and he says that he shot twice. He said that he didn’t know who he was shooting at, because of the complete darkness that night brings to his

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