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Literature Text
When I roll over, my eyes are blinded by the sunlight coming through my window, now free of the boards nailed over it all those years ago…
(Forty-three years, to be exact.)
I shield my eyes from the light, and, groaning with the effort, I sit up. I stretch as much as my frail body will allow, and I rub the sleep from my eyes. When I reach blindly but out of muscle memory for my top hat, which should be on my dresser because I set it there every night before I go to bed, it isn't there. An exasperated sigh escapes my parched lips, and I scan first my dresser, and then catch sight of the brim peeking out from underneath my bed.
I lug myself out of bed with another sigh—not out of exasperation, but out of the little sparks of pain I receive because of my growing arthritis and my bones just becoming old and weak. Slowly but surely, I kneel, and I fetch my top hat from underneath my bed; I wipe away the dust and put it on my balding head.
I stand after some effort, and I make my way to my bathroom, mechanically brushing my teeth and flossing, taking my shower and re-dressing in my faded green clothes, then going downstairs to make myself pancakes.
The great memories I have associated with the cooked batter have faded and now leave a bitter aftertaste in my mouth, along with the regret that weighs heavy on my shoulders as well as my soul.
I clench and unclench my left hand to and from a fist, shuddering for a moment, but that hand still shakes, like it's trapped in some kind of aftershock. I sit still for a long and agonizing moment before, first pulling the fingers and then the whole glove from my arm, I reveal my pale hand. I must take a moment before I can look down to where I carved those letters into my fingertips all those years ago…
(Forty-three years…)
(To be exact.)
I stare for a long while at my fingers, examining the precise insanity I engraved in my fingertips with that dull knife:
GREED
Five letters fit perfectly onto each of them.
…Greed.
Greed.
That's what drove them away…
That's what drove her away…
My straight mouth seeps into a frown, and my lanky figure shakes with silent sobs and the air reverberates with the sounds of my soft intakes of air. My tears are absorbed by my right glove. I curl my left hand into a fist and dig my nails into my palms, not caring about the pain.
It's the only way I know I'm alive, after all…
A knock at my door snaps me to attention, and I panic inside, standing so quickly out of surprise my chair teeters and then hits the floor with a thud, causing an eruption of dust and me to stop crying from the shock.
I stand there, thinking it is my imagination, when another knock disrupts the silence. This breaks my still spell, and, after much hesitation, I find myself opening the door.
I look straight forward and then down with an, "Oh."
That's right.
The Lorax is back.
He raises a yellow-orange eyebrow at me, inviting himself in and walking around my still-spindly legs. "Thought you went and took a dirt nap on me for a moment there, kid." He sounds genuinely worried for at least a few seconds, then notices my frying pan, and glances back at me with a, "Can I…have some of those fluffy round things…?"
I smile and begin to reach for it when he grabs my hand in mid-reach. My left hand with the scars you can still read as clear as day.
He flips it palm-up and turns his head to an angle so he can read it. I removed my gaze from him as soon as he grabbed my hand. There is a bout of silence, and I slowly turn my gaze back to him, fearful of his expression.
But all it shows is question.
I feel how tense I am, but continue to let the intension make me sore. "…I would say that it's none of your business…" my voice's volume is considerably lower. "But it's all of your business."
I take a breath to tell him about it, but he stops me when he asks, "Do you remember Strawberry?"
I stop. Moving, breathing, thinking. But I'm remembering. Pancakes and smiles. That Warm Feeling and overly loud voices. Water and tears, I remember.
I remember and it's okay.
"Straw…of course I remember…"
(Forty-three years, to be exact.)
I shield my eyes from the light, and, groaning with the effort, I sit up. I stretch as much as my frail body will allow, and I rub the sleep from my eyes. When I reach blindly but out of muscle memory for my top hat, which should be on my dresser because I set it there every night before I go to bed, it isn't there. An exasperated sigh escapes my parched lips, and I scan first my dresser, and then catch sight of the brim peeking out from underneath my bed.
I lug myself out of bed with another sigh—not out of exasperation, but out of the little sparks of pain I receive because of my growing arthritis and my bones just becoming old and weak. Slowly but surely, I kneel, and I fetch my top hat from underneath my bed; I wipe away the dust and put it on my balding head.
I stand after some effort, and I make my way to my bathroom, mechanically brushing my teeth and flossing, taking my shower and re-dressing in my faded green clothes, then going downstairs to make myself pancakes.
The great memories I have associated with the cooked batter have faded and now leave a bitter aftertaste in my mouth, along with the regret that weighs heavy on my shoulders as well as my soul.
I clench and unclench my left hand to and from a fist, shuddering for a moment, but that hand still shakes, like it's trapped in some kind of aftershock. I sit still for a long and agonizing moment before, first pulling the fingers and then the whole glove from my arm, I reveal my pale hand. I must take a moment before I can look down to where I carved those letters into my fingertips all those years ago…
(Forty-three years…)
(To be exact.)
I stare for a long while at my fingers, examining the precise insanity I engraved in my fingertips with that dull knife:
GREED
Five letters fit perfectly onto each of them.
…Greed.
Greed.
That's what drove them away…
That's what drove her away…
My straight mouth seeps into a frown, and my lanky figure shakes with silent sobs and the air reverberates with the sounds of my soft intakes of air. My tears are absorbed by my right glove. I curl my left hand into a fist and dig my nails into my palms, not caring about the pain.
It's the only way I know I'm alive, after all…
A knock at my door snaps me to attention, and I panic inside, standing so quickly out of surprise my chair teeters and then hits the floor with a thud, causing an eruption of dust and me to stop crying from the shock.
I stand there, thinking it is my imagination, when another knock disrupts the silence. This breaks my still spell, and, after much hesitation, I find myself opening the door.
I look straight forward and then down with an, "Oh."
That's right.
The Lorax is back.
He raises a yellow-orange eyebrow at me, inviting himself in and walking around my still-spindly legs. "Thought you went and took a dirt nap on me for a moment there, kid." He sounds genuinely worried for at least a few seconds, then notices my frying pan, and glances back at me with a, "Can I…have some of those fluffy round things…?"
I smile and begin to reach for it when he grabs my hand in mid-reach. My left hand with the scars you can still read as clear as day.
He flips it palm-up and turns his head to an angle so he can read it. I removed my gaze from him as soon as he grabbed my hand. There is a bout of silence, and I slowly turn my gaze back to him, fearful of his expression.
But all it shows is question.
I feel how tense I am, but continue to let the intension make me sore. "…I would say that it's none of your business…" my voice's volume is considerably lower. "But it's all of your business."
I take a breath to tell him about it, but he stops me when he asks, "Do you remember Strawberry?"
I stop. Moving, breathing, thinking. But I'm remembering. Pancakes and smiles. That Warm Feeling and overly loud voices. Water and tears, I remember.
I remember and it's okay.
"Straw…of course I remember…"
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alright. The Once-Ler's pretty awesome.
and i got bored okay
okay
*I don't own The Lorax, etc.*
Strawberry is mine.
and i got bored okay
okay
*I don't own The Lorax, etc.*
Strawberry is mine.
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Hahaha!! This is great!! I like it! You caught their personalities well!!