A Short Story

This was the first assignent in my AP Lit and Comp class last year (senior year of high school) and we had to write a fictional short story about anything. Here's mine. Enjoy!

The Rocking Chair

The rain fell in a calm rhythm as the thunder roared above her head. The sound, ironically, used to put her to sleep as a child, yet now emphasized the tension in the air. As she ran, she wasn’t sure if the liquid running down her brow was sweat or rain. The place was desolate, as if someone had unleashed an atomic bomb on it. Things were scattered here and there and there was ash on everything. Frantically looking for a place to hide, she spotted a familiar looking abandoned house on the side of the road. She changed from a run to a quick walk, not wanting to arouse suspicion in any onlookers, not that there were any, but you could never be too careful. “Why did this have to happen to me of all people? What great sin did I commit??” she muttered to herself as she pried open the door. Looking around, she saw no one in the house and proceeded to find the nearest couch. Disappointment set in as she noticed there was no furniture in the house except for an old rocking chair with the initials “RM” engraved into it. “Strange…those are my initials too” she noticed. Deciding to put aside this coincidence, she threw her bag down on the floor and curled up in the chair, hoping that this was only a dream and soon the smell of pancakes and eggs would drift to her room and wake her up.


Rabia Merchant’s life wasn’t always like this, constantly on the run, fearing another sudden attack. She had it all, the looks, the money, the brains, and the perfect family. Her life was perfect; every wish she had was fulfilled, everything the wanted, she got. Her dad was the CEO of the most successful company in America, SYNTRON, and her mother was the head of the PTA at her school and a stay-home mom. Rabia was an only child and was quite gifted. Aside from being athletic, she was also an artist. Her paintings were featured throughout the city and won multiple awards, though she insisted they were never good enough. What she hadn’t told anyone was that she felt she hadn’t drawn them. She never remembered painting the pictures although she was sure it was her, not someone else. She wondered if anyone would understand but never told a soul for fear of ridicule. Many had asked to sit with her and watch her paint but she always politely refused, knowing that it wasn’t safe. She had stopped painting a while back, but started up again when she began to have fits at night. She would not be able to sleep and her hands would burn as if on fire. Scared, she didn’t know what else to do but continue her art.


When she finally had herself under control, things began to fall apart. She would forget where she was and wander off, sometimes for hours. Her hands began to shake and she began to have delusional dreams at night. Her parents started to worry when she locked herself in her room for days, doing nothing but paint. They found the best psychiatrist in the world, Dr. Edmund Wilde and insisted on regular appointments, hoping he would cure their daughter. Days were spent in vain as he could only reach one answer: Schizophrenia. Rabia knew that what she had was not Schizophrenia; there was another person living inside of her, who longed to be free but was trapped by her body. She tried to relate this to Dr. Wilde but he noted this down as delusional. She knew she would never be free of this problem unless she took matters into her own hands. Dr. Wilde only knew of the disorders he had read about, but he had never experienced one himself so he couldn’t relate to Rabia. She needed outside help and she had to find it herself.


She had made up her mind to leave the next day. Her things were packed and she had written a note explaining to her parents what she was doing. She told them she loved them but this was a journey she had to take herself. Her cell phone began to vibrate. “Hello?” she tentatively asked. “It’s time…I’ll be waiting at our discussed location. Be quick” The voice was scratchy and she couldn’t make out who it was. Before she could ask, she heard a click. The person had hung up. She quickly gathered her belongings, left the note at the dining table, and ran out of the house. She didn’t stop until she reached the outskirts of town. At first, the place seemed empty and she began to have doubts about her friend. He had called himself “Doc” but she couldn’t just shout Doc. She heard footsteps behind her and she whirled around ready to punch her follower in the face but she lowered her arm in time. It was him. He was dressed all in black and the only part of his face that wasn’t covered in soot was a gash from his left eyebrow down to his neck. She didn’t want to ask how he got that but she felt uneasy looking at it. “So how do you plan on helping me? I hope you’re not a fake because that would make me really mad.” She tried a threatening tone, knowing he was probably unfazed. “I assure you, your money is well worth it” he replied, his voice velvety-smooth.


He took her to his workshop. It was a makeshift house, with wood slapped here and there as if made by a child. “It’s not much but I get by” he added apologetically. She nodded. She wasn’t here for comfort; she needed answers and she didn’t care how uncomfortable she was. The house was dimly lit and there was a faint odor of cigarettes. “Here is the book you are looking for. It will explain everything you need to know. I’ll be back. I have some unfinished business to take care of. You have my number so call me if you need any help” His lips twitched once, as if they were attempting a smile. “Yeah, thanks” she replied looking at the title “The Troubled Spirit”. The door creaked shut and she began thumbing through the pages. There wasn’t enough light to read so she moved to the window. “Hmm…dissociative identity disorder…” that was the closest she could come up with to explain her problem. She knew there was more than that though. As she read, she realized this was not a simple psychology book. It was written in the 17th century regarding people just like her. There was a case in Salem of a woman who claimed she was possessed by another being who made her do things. She apparently did not remember doing most of the things she was charged against. As she continued to read, she found she had the same “symptoms” as many of these people. The only cure was to destroy yourself to destroy the soul of the other being or to destroy your surroundings and sacrifice yourself so as to let the being take over you. “What a bunch of bologna” she muttered. She had lost track of time as she was reading and night had fallen. Doc was not back yet and it was getting cold. She gave up on the book and got up. As she began to look for a place to rest, she came across an old drawer labeled “Explosives”. In it she found directions to make a bomb and some notes. They looked like directions but she could only make out the street name “Belvoir Drive”. “That’s strange. That’s the street my house is on…” she remembered what was written in the book about destroying your surroundings. “He wouldn’t” she whispered to herself. She suddenly realized what was about to happen. “He’s going to blow the town into smithereens” she gasped. The thought was so sickening it almost deserved a maniacal laugh. She ran out of the house, hoping it wasn’t too late.


“You can make it. It’s not too late” It couldn’t be too late. Everything needed to be fine. “He can’t let so many innocent people die!” she wanted to punch him. She regretted ever contacting him. She suddenly stopped running. She was there and it was too late. The whole town had been obliterated. There were no signs of life, no cars, no children laughing, nothing. Everyone had been killed instantly. She wondered if they felt anything. She wondered what they were thinking. Were they disappointed? Worried? Scared? Angry? She certainly was all these things. Her phone vibrated. “New text message from Doc: ‘You’re not at the house so I’m guessing you left. You figured it out, clever stupid girl. Now that you know I can’t let you get off can I? No, you’re next’” He was coming after her. He was going to kill her. Tears started streaming down her face as the sky darkened. It was going to rain. She would not go down without a fight. She would not let these innocent martyrs go in vain. She would fight back. She felt as though a weight had been lifted off her chest. The spirit that had been occupying her body had gone and she had no idea why. She remembered the book. “Sacrifice, destruction of my home…that’s what it took to rid me of my insanity” she was torn between relief and sorrow. She gave up her past life to start a new life, with new people. She had to forget everything if she was going to survive. She knew there were more people like her out there and she would do everything in her power to help them and get rid of Doc. He wasn’t her friend; he was her enemy. “I won’t let him get away with this” she cursed his name. She heard footsteps behind her. She turned but no one was there. Heart pounding, she ran. She saw an abandoned house and went inside.


Rabia woke up. “Was this some horrible dream? Where am I?” she sleepily yawned and looked around. Then everything came back to her, Doc, her family, the destruction. She looked at the chair and the letters engraved on it – “RM”. “Those are my initials…this is my house” she whispered. There was a knock at the door. “Honey, I’m home!” said a cruel mocking voice. It was him.