the fall of creativity

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Digging up those middle and high school creative writings is always an amusing experience. I stumble upon the most ridiculous stories and bleak poetry from those emo, angsty teenage days. Here is something particularly interesting that I came upon.

Long before I ever watched the Bourne series, I conjured up and wrote a short story about a killer wrestling with his guilty conscience and then unexpectedly apologizing to the loved ones of the people he killed. So when I finally saw Bourne Supremacy last semester and on came the scene where Bourne found Neski’s daughter and apologized to her for killing her parents, I was thinking…. wait… this seems familiar for some reason… ohh yeahh, I wrote a story like this in 8^th grade! Here is an excerpt of the beginning and ending of my short story, if you care to read what is possibly the apex of all my creative literary achievements. (Sadly high school and college had squelched all those creative tendencies in all forms of writing since then.)

            “It was damp and dark in the cave. Memories flooded in his mind… Screams filled his head, those of a woman. The woman. Her face of pain and grief was imprinted in his mind forever. The screams of a dying man. The soft cry of a baby. The yelling of the police. Dazed pictures of blurred red. Again the woman’s face. Swiftly, something took over him. Was it an earthquake? No, it was only his head that was making him dizzy and sick. He noticed his trembling hand that gripped the pistol. It slowly slipped from his hands, and he turned and ran. There was silence, only the dashing thuds of his footsteps, or was it his heart?

            And suddenly, the pictures were gone. All was black and silent in the cave as was his black coat and facemask. It was cold. He bunched up and hid his face in his arms, looking down.

            “Why couldn’t I take it this time?” he thought to himself. “I have killed before and ran away without even thinking about it, but why did this time make me dizzy and disgusted?” The shaking picture of the red, red that was spilled everywhere seized his mind. “Why do I feel pain?” Now the woman’s agonized face popped up, while the cry of the baby echoed in his ears. His memories had answered all his questions for him. Before, he had only killed at pitch dark, where there was only a soft blast and the man was still and dead and alone as he quickly pilfered his wallet and snatched the suitcase of cash. This time, he’d only shot his victim on the shoulder, and to silence him, he fired more and more until blood gushed out like a river. The police came and hovered around and he shot out more to escape. One bullet had landed on the baby.

            “I killed a baby, I killed a baby, god damn, I killed a baby. An innocent, precious child.” What had he become? Slowly he slouched into a troubled sleep.

The yellow sun came up and he aroused also. He lifted his head up, pulled off his black facemask. Out shook a young face of a teenager with brown hair framing around it. It would have almost been a fresh, lively face if it hadn’t been murdered and hardened at such a young age.  Blinking in the bright sunlight, he looked around him. There was a dark cave or ditch of some sort, well hidden from the rest of the evil civilization and the hated, uncaring people it possessed. He caught a glimpse of his black attire, and all the memories flooded in again. He forcefully fought them away, but it was his sudden realization of his hunger that chased those thoughts away. In his awakening, hunger roared at his stomach. Nearby, tattered bag of random items he had stolen was sadly lying. He rummaged through it and found a wallet. In it was a small pack of strong mints. Through his hunger, the murderer fairly chucked the whole box into his mouth. As the mints were burning through his tongue, the memories came again. This time, it was only that woman, that poor, poor woman with the shattered look on her eyes. He had killed her husband and her baby. Another life ruined liked his own…

[Skip to the ending of the story where he goes to apologize to the woman] 
Now he was face to face with the plain brown door [of the woman’s house]…Trembling hands that once gripped a gun now trembled more violently as it lifted to push the doorbell.

            A small woman with straight brown hair creaked open the door. Although quite beautiful, her skin now had a tint of gray.

            “Hello, Ms. Would you like to purchase some candy to help…” Her eyes met mine now. A scream let out.

The woman dashed in, fumbled the phone, and dialed 911, thought for a while, then slammed the phone down.

“If you want to kill me like you did to my baby and my husband, you can do it now. I haven’t much to live for anyway.”

Silence.

He stood there and his brain froze. She knew who he was…

“How did you know…?”

“How do I not know the eyes of my baby’s killer? Your eyes are imprinted in my head forever.” she said calmly. “ But I couldn’t imagine you to be so young. You can shoot me now, or else the police will be arriving.”

Neighbors were pacing around in a frantic outside now as they heard the scream and now saw the police cars arriving. Hubbub swarmed all over outside. The police quietly pushed the neighbors away as they circled the house.

In the quiet gray room of the house, he was just standing there as the memories came back in a slide show this time, piece by piece. It was silent but peaceful in the room. Outside was a world of havoc with sirens and frantic yells.

“So aren’t you going to shoot me now? Or what else did you come here for?”

“I’m… sorry.” Before tears could bulge out, the murderer dashed right out the door leaving a shocked woman standing in the room.

He ran right out, dropped his gun, and stood there while the bullets silently and slowly drained life out of the young, fresh-faced teenager.” The End.

I think sharing and posting this short story is much more for my amusement value than for your own personal value of how much you even care about this. But what more is a blog than a channel for self-absorbed musings and to spit out fiercely rebellious statements that won't amount to anything? As I see it, a blog is just the height of one’s own narcissism. But that’s ok! Ever since those English teachers told you to write concisely and clearly using concrete details and omitting the first person “I”, the creative and expressive side of writing was already all but destroyed. That is why the advent of the personal blog, a medium for self-expression, is then so crucial to keep people like me sane.

I am rambling. But I hope you do enjoy the story written by 8^th grade Sandra. I have to say I was a rather morbid kid. But all I can say now is  that Jason Bourne completely RIPPED OFF of my story. Just kidding. Jason Bourne would totally own any murder story I can come up with. He pretty much rocks. In fact, he's probably watching you right now.