Hello, I have an English assignment due tomorrow morning.
The Question is "write a narrative within which the main character experiences an awakening or realization".
Here is my story. What should I change?
Who would have thought a sugar cube has all the answers?
As it touches my tongue, I feel it corrode, its kindliness sweetness tantalising my mouth as the sucrose overpowers the flavour of the lysergic acid diethylamide imbedded within its grains.
Now we wait.
My mirror on my wall paints a picture of me. Six hours until I’m thirty six, what have I accomplished? A lone silver hair plunges from beneath my fingertips, landing upon my shoulder, speckled with crystals of dandruff. I hate my eyes, even in this light they’re a dull, decaying singed brown. What have I accomplished? It’s nearly my birthday and I’m alone, resorting to a brief diversion to materiality, the fruitfulness of my life. The antiquated time piece upon my mantle seems to be faster than usual. Its hands pulsating, its heart creeping further towards its death with each beat. Such a comical contrast that it’s situated next to a photo of us within the valentines frame you presented to me. You with your foul strawberry hair at the perfect length, your corrupt sapphire eyes, and your malevolent smile tearing us apart because of my innocent mistakes.
The time piece ticks once more, its hour hand twisting, bending, growing and condensing. Five hours until I’m thirty six. My room itself seems grimy, tea cups spotted with camomile pods are stacked upon the floor, the hinges upon my door feeble and rusted arching the door ever so much closer to me, and my ceiling with its cracks within the plaster are some memoir, a tattoo of decades of disregard.
Three hours until I’m thirty six. My room is there. That’s funny. No, my room is there. My head is here. How peculiar. Why, it does not seem to be here after all. I am here. I am alone. Nothing but dust moulded to be biotic. I am surrounded by dust filling our lives with the expectation for us to die, leaving behind but a trace, a memory ingrained into the minds of my descendants, until my second death when somebody says my name for the last time.
How grim. Tears fall down my cheek, dancing in slow motion as they slip away and decay upon the touch of the floor. My floor itself is alive, the hairs of the carpet are worms, breathing and intertwining themselves with each other. My carpet once was orange, but now it is yellow or peach, or marmalade. It is every shade, alternating spectacularly and coinciding with each press of the metronomic time piece upon my mantle. I am alone. Why am I alone? Am I alone always? Is everyone alone? Why am I alone?
(continued)