Olivia
This is a piece for school literature, in which I had to write a first chapter. Please help me edit :( and think of a title if possible. More than happy to return the favour.
Snow danced along streams of light, choreographed by a tender breath of wind. The frost patiently kissed her skin, chilling her cheeks to a blush red. It was as if the world was transfixed in a liminal place.
The crunch of boots breaking into the pillow of snow destroyed the cloak the landscape wore. Admiring the house before her, Elyse stumbled down the driveway, the wheels of her suitcase sloshing behind her. The house stood lone and gratified, encircled by a white porch which contrasted the pewter weatherboards. She heaved her suitcase up the three stair steps and to the mat scrawled in cursive: Welcome.
Sweeping a gloved hand under the coir doormat, her crimson curls provided a momentary curtain. Having retrieved a key, Elyse unlocked the front door and was instantly welcomed by warmth and the smell of pine as she stepped over the threshold. The ceiling made of polished to perfection timber crept metres above, belittling her small frame. A small woven basket full of bread, jams and purees sat atop the central aged table in the kitchen to her right. Three photos hung linearly on her left, the smiles of a family beaming. Elyse stepped back into the foyer, and gazed the winding staircase before her. The rails were vines crafted by a sculptor’s hand - upstairs, only the hallway was visible. Staggering up the stairs, the staccato clunk of her suitcase filled the vacant space. Despite the disappearing sunlight through a top window floor, her hair was set alight as she struggled, and the flush that stained her cheeks was made more apparent.
Alvin, her boss, had rented this cabin for a month – an odd gesture for an underpaid trainee. Elyse spent most of her days running coffee orders to and from the local café on Braymoor Road. She was never someone to reject a gift, to risk upsetting anyone, so she’d welcomed the all-expenses paid trip without hesitance.
The evening passed quickly as she familiarised herself with the cabin; an ensuite stemmed off the bedroom which was also accessible from the hallway, supposedly for convenience. She’d attempted to to open the door opposite her bedroom, but to no avail. Her only key didn’t fit the lock. A heater replaced the crackling fire, which Elyse felt remorseful about smothering after accomplishing an atypical task for a city girl. As she tucked herself into bed, the silence was unsettling compared to the hum of life she’d grown accustom to.
A shatter pierced the silent veil that had cast itself over the cabin, abruptly ripping Elyse from her sleep. She shot to her feet alert and grabbed the nearest weapon – a lamp, odd yet affective. Creeping out of her room, she paused against the wooden barricades. Listening. Elyse tiptoed stealthy, trying hard to avoid that her cotton covered feet didn’t creak the timber.
As she stepped off the stairs a glean from the kitchen archway caught her eye. Fragmented shards of glass were smashed and scattered along the floor. Edging closer, she discovered the source of the chaos. The third family photo had fallen to the floor, the screw stood a lone soldier. Elyse scanned the room, checking the windows to see if a draft would accept the blame, but all the windows had been locked shut. She scoured the kitchen in search for a broom; it had been tucked behind the door. Placing the remnants of the picture frame on the dining table, Elyse studied the portrait; a couple who stood candidly, holding each other at the hips. Furrowing her brows, she flipped the frame, noting how the image puckered unnaturally in the frame, and pulled out the fasteners holding the backing frame. As she pulled out the picture, a trifold fell open revealing a second man smiling brightly at the camera, who had been obscured from any acknowledgement.
Perplexed, she placed the picture back into its frame and placed the man back into his permanent state of concealment. She finished collecting the glass shards and emptied then into the bin. Having not eaten anything since her arrival, she felt peckish, and fetched the wholemeal loaf from the welcoming basket, taking a slice. As she pushed down the lever to the cyan toaster her hand skimmed the kettle, burning her. Puzzled, she took a mug and filled it - the steam wafted into a cloud before her. Stepping back, she frantically scanned the room, her face the embodiment of fear.
As I watched her return to fumble with the kettle, I think to myself, why did I leave the kettle on?
