15 April 2012
This is the third and final section of my short descriptive story I wrote when I was 12. It's best if you read the first 2 sections before this one.
Norman hadn’t been very popular as a child, he’d never been bullied but no one ever talked to him because they knew they’d get a short, sharp answer and a long stare with those hypnotic eyes. He was a clever child, good at maths and chess but impossible to teach, he was always in a day dream. Norman had dropped out of university after a year and got a job washing cars, while he was in this job he got more and more reclusive and eventually the manager fired him. Norman would never forgive him for that, he couldn’t find any more jobs and that’s how he ended up in his current council flat. Norman took the last few steps to a grey, mainly plastic kitchen that hadn’t been used for anything more than preparing salads in the last five years. He reached out to the knife rack and curled his long, bony fingers around the biggest knife. There had been three knives in the rack but after removing the biggest one, there were only two. Noticing this, he quickly opened a drawer and pulled a rusted, blunt knife out. He shoved it into the empty space in the knife rack, There, three, he took a deep breath.
A child on a tricycle was playing outside his flat on the 12th floor, the door to the flat next to him opened and he saw a tall, blond haired man walk away from him towards the lift. As the man walked further away the little boy heard a faint tip tap tip, one, two, three, tip tap tip…
My Story Part 3 • Opuss № I