~~One week ago my grandmother died from cancer in the heart. The boisterous cries that came from her room at three in the morning every night could have risen the devil inside this elderly creature. Attending her funeral today, Saturday August 16th, freed me from my mental asylum providing me with answers I would have never gotten before. Countless summers were spent in the woods learning how to make fires with two materials, blood and sticks. Occasionally I visit the lonely cabin trying to recall memories that didn't make sense the night she died.
Seven days ago I walked home drunk from a party that was forbidden by my parents who lived four hours away. After community service I moved in with my father’s mom to escape the world I was living in before. As I walked up the white wooden steps the door was broken into multiple pieces and lantern shards were sprawled across the porch. Next thing I remember is waking up to my grandmother’s funeral in a cemetery my brother was buried in. Before I started my junior year of high school my family lost my brother to a tumor in his lungs that spread to his heart. Later I started getting involved with drugs and drinking to erase the pain I thought I could replace. When my parent’s found out they reported me to the police and I was assigned to support services and therapy. A year passed and I was back on track until my grandma became sick and I was sent to take care of her in the house I looked forward going to when I was a kid.
Tomorrow, August 16th, I am being released to piece together the rest of the events that happened the night of her death. The cause of her death was a tumor, but the doctors were mistaken.
Next evening I packed up my things and drove an hour into the woods. At about seven o’clock it started to become dark so I went outside and decided to build a fire. While I was collecting sticks around the yard I could see a distinct shadow off in the distance near the bushes. I bent over a bit to catch a glimpse of the animal that was casting it but it disappeared. I turned around and there it was. A woman stood a couple feet away wearing a black cloak that went to her ankles. Her black tangled hair cascaded down her shoulders, although she looked familiar. “Grandma?” I said. She vanished in the blink of an eye giving me an opportunity to escape. I ran to the kitchen, grabbed a knife, and sprinted downstairs. In the pitch black darkness I could hear my heart pounding through my skin. Right in front of me appeared the woman with blood trickling down her face who said in a soft voice, “Tumor’s won’t get me. And neither will you.”