Tronoville: A Short Story

The sun was kissing the horizon; the day was just beginning, and the sweet sounds of the birds morning sound had awakened me. I was sitting in the same spot I do day after day, happy and well rested. I awoke from my peaceful slumber with a large, clanging chime that echoed off the walls and the roof. The sounds of footsteps stomped down the stairs, and there, as always, was Todd. And as he always does, he shuffled his way to the kitchen and turned on the coffee. Finally, as the aroma of burnt coffee grounds filled the air, a new day had begun.

It was two days before Christmas, when Josephine opened the door to her 12 year old son’s room. Chay was the oldest of her four children, and the one she related to most. As Josephine sat down on the edge of the bed, Chay opened his eyes slowly. The dim light that seeped through the partially opened door revealed tears in his mother’s eyes.

Loisel walked to the window and sat. There she spent her time, wasting away. Her husband would bring food, worried. Mme. Loisel contemplated and contemplated. This was all preventable, but she didn’t want to believe it. She had given too much away to know she could’ve easily prevented it. She moped. She cried. She pouted. Why her? Weeks passed like days. Eventually, her husband tapped her shoulder. She didn’t notice until the fifth attempt to capture her attention.

At first, I lay snug under my soft silky sheets in my bed. London, my seven year old cousin, called to me from the other room. “Peyton, can you please come read me a story before I have to go to bed?” she said. I walked to her room and told her, “I’m sorry I can’t, it is already past your best time and I don’t want your mommy mad at me.” London looked me straight in the eye, her lip puckering, eyes welling, she began to cry and scream and begged of me to read her just one chapter of a book. I felt awful because of what I had caused, and therefore, I agreed to read to her.

Late last night her mother had driven away. Her father’s eyes filled with tears as he told Lizzie her mother had filed a divorce. She could feel the pain of her father’s broken heart. She prayed that her laughter and love would mend the pain.

she would define herself as a deeply unhappy person, cursed by the inability to ever have someone love her for all she is. somewhere in between the ticking time, her screw came undone as she switched between a vigorous zest to a glacial stares with condescending phrases, only to finish it by suddenly dropping on the floor as she cowers in fear, frantically breaking down and cries. and time and time again, she’d say “i try not to be scared, you know, but i still ruin everything.” as she spoke gently, softly, yet her pupils would shiver in paralysation. though fortunately, at times, she became better in hiding her own conflicts, as she stood in her bedroom windowsill trying to take everything all in — too much for a girl like her to take in, but what does she even care about but guilt and the feeling of wanting someone to held her hands, their fingertips touching together, both cold, but the warmth would seep through her fingertips then through her veins.

I remember the day just like it was yesterday, the pale color and coldness of her skin. The sky was clear blue, soft, with a touch of red, and the trees seemed stiff in their bright green shade. The wind was blowing with its humid dry air. And All I could do was stand silently in disbelief, caught up in my own thoughts and calm as I ever been. Wondering what I could have done differently to change the course of time, life had taken us upon. Since that very day a chunk of my heart was ripped away, and broken into pieces… “Oh how I miss her so much.”

Winnie Westbrook was surprised to see her daughter standing in the foyer on a Wednesday afternoon. “Chou-Chou?” She slowly descended the staircase. “What are you doing home in the middle of the week? You okay?”

As I scour around for something to eat, I find the pantry empty (what a surprise) except for a bag of potatoes, a couple of packets of 2 min noodles and a few loaves of almost-finished bread. I salvage two pieces, put them in the toaster and flick through the junk mail. "How was school?" a husky voice calls from the lounge. Mother has resurrected. The side of her face is patterned with red marks from the pillow. She trudges over to the fridge, opening it mindlessly, closing it. She repeats this process with the freezer and several cupboards, tears began to fall down her cheeks. I know the fact we had no food MUST have really upset

It had been another beautiful day in Ireland. The sun was shining, and everything seemed to be perfect. A small girl from a small village was walking home from school. Her name was Molly. She was eleven years of age, had flaming red hair, and a face full of freckles. Her family consisted of three people. Her mother, her father, and her. She was poverty-stricken, but always tried to find the silver lining in things. She was in bright sprits, considering she had aced a challenging test that day. She arrived at her home, hoping that her mother had had a equally enjoyable day as she had. But nothing could have prepared her for what she was about to face. As the old front door to what Molly called home squeaked open, she heard the sound of hard

Chester was too stunned to watch them. He began to calm down as the realization sunk in. He could hear their thoughts. The possibilities seemed endless. He’d have to think, he hated to make decisions recklessly. Quietly, Chester began to eat. Soon, his mother calmed enough that they were able to spend the afternoon together without further weeping. He was distracted with ideas of how his life might change, much of the time. Maybe high school wouldn’t be so bad, anymore. His parents forgave him his withdrawal. He was traumatized, after all. Very easy to

Sarah admired the brilliantly green grass, she’d never seen grass so bright before. Where Sarah was from, by the time the grass had begun to recover from the long, harsh winters, it was autumn again. Staring at the glorious color, Sarah had almost forgot that her world was falling apart around her. Almost forgot that the reason she was seeing the grass was because her mother had been murdered, and she’d been sent to live with her aunt that she’d only ever met once. Almost forgot that she’d have to attend therapy and group counseling, because it was just assumed that she was emotionally broken from witnessing the brutal slaying of her mother.

“Mom, get up, we’re going to be late” yelling as I run down the hallway. “Late for what?”she asks. “Mom, didn’t you know Kim’s funeral is today?” I press. “Oh, right” she says with a solemn look on her face. I look up at the tangled mess staring back at me in the mirror. “Who is this, this isn’t me.” I say to myself, as I hear my mom banging around her room, looking for the hair brush too.

What was supposed to be the happiest time of my life, my childhood, was the most painful time of my life. I remember vividly how my alcoholic father’s boots and legs looked, right before he removed his belt to whip me, as I lay on the floor anticipating the strike. He would remind me that I “would never amount to anything,” and my sister and I would “always be nothing more than a disappointment.” It became a routine in my life. The drunkard would come home enraged, and my mother would try to protect my younger sister, Katharina, and me as we escaped to our hiding place. The big, sturdy table covered with the long snow-white tablecloth was our safe haven. I’d cover Katharina’s ears, as I’d listen to the harsh clap of my father’s dirty, rough hands against my mother’s soft, yet exhausted cheeks. We stayed in hiding until I heard my father leave the house. I held my sweet, beautiful, retarded sister, Katharina, tightly in my embrace, promising to never let any harm come to

Sam could tell it was going to be the same as every other day even before he’d reached the front door. How did he know this? A cookbook flying through the front window was all the reassurance he needed as he trudged up the driveway. It landed with a loud thud on the lawn as neighbours looked on in distress, onlookers glancing at him worried looks filled their faces. But Sam did not even turn his head at them, keeping it directed at his feet, too ashamed to deal with their hollow sympathy.