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Is my story good so far?
So I randomly decided to write a story. I would just like to know if it’s good or would you actually read it. Also, it’s a rough draft, so there is bound to be some mistakes. Thank you to anyone who answers!
I am staring solemnly out my bedroom window as they take her away. She is nothing but beautiful. Her posture, nothing less than perfect and her chestnut hair neatly swept up into a flawless bun. There was no need for resistance. She didn’t fight back or beg them not to take her. She was collected as always as she kissed my brother and I on our foreheads and gave my father a quick kiss on the lips, which was all that she needed to do. There was no need for anything more than those simple gestures of affection. We knew without words that she loved us. With every heartbeat and with each step towards the car waiting for her outside, we knew she did not want leave. Yet, she had to go. How could we have done anything otherwise?
As the front door locked before me, shattering what would be the last memory of my mother that I would ever experience, I raced up to my bedroom. I sit here now watching them pack her into that dark gray car. They slam the door behind her as I look away. Venom is coursing through my veins, a venom only of regret. Regret that I was helpless before those officials who came to take my mother away. I wonder if my father feels the same regret; if he feels this venom too.
“Caroline?” my father says softly followed by a gentle knock on my door.
I don’t want to talk, but I swallow hard and murmur, “ It’s open.”
He quietly opens the door. His posture is slowly deteriorating with age, but he stands firm and collected, spread out to his full height of six foot four. I can see the wrinkles of age and hard work making a home in his tired face, but other than the wearing down of time he still looks just as handsome as when he had met my mother. He wears a blank look, but his eyes give his seemingly calm demeanor away. They are full of pain. Those deep golden orbs that express only his innermost thoughts, surrounded by baggy and aged skin, are left untouched by the stress and the burdens of life.
“Your mothe-,” he choked on the word.
“Your mother wanted me to give you this,” he sighed, his eyes searching a blue envelope that was tightly cradled in his left hand.
He handed it to me. I felt the smooth paper beneath my callused hands. As long as I can remember my hands have always been tainted with cuts and calluses due to my excessive garden work. Ever since the Morbus people have resorted to living off the land, farming whenever and wherever it was possible. For the past ten years of my life gardening has been the sole source of food for my family and the only way to keep away from the cities.
“ What’s in it?” I asked him as he glanced from me to the window that had recently given me the last glimpse of my mother I would ever receive. I stared quizzically at him as he furrowed his brow. A painful expression crossed his face.
“ She left it strictly for you. After she knew that they would be coming for her she gave it to me along with instructions to give it to you after she would be taken. I don’t know, Caroline,” he whispered, tears threatening those golden eyes.