(NOTE: First of all, I changed my Photo Junkie page into this Story Board Page!)
This is the first story I ever posted here. Please don't hate me for it! It's a typical story, so please don't hate me.. :')
Photo Credit to Fine Art America
There were times when Poppy would just pop up from our window and climb in to our house. She was a bottle of sunshine to everyone in the village. I loved how Poppy smiled and would take my toys and rip them apart like it was hers. She lived a few houses away from mine, but she became my friend instantly after a few bullies at the park ganged up on me.
“OI! Leave the kid alone!!! I think he’s had enough!”, she said to the other kids who were then, pushing sand to my face .
Since Poppy taller and bigger than most of the kids, they ran away and left me alone. She pulled me up, patted my clothes clean of sand and flashed me a smile. I think that was also the time that I knew that Poppy would mean more than a friend. She would be my strength.
Poppy was never the type to talk about herself. She just liked living for the day; play as much as she could, laugh as much as she could, but she never sat down to tell me secrets of her life. She never invited me to her house but she was always welcome in mine. I got curious.
One day, I decided to secretly follow her. The way she walked was much calmer and slower. She then stopped at one house that look shambled and distressed. I stared at her as she quickly rushed inside the house. She held her small, tattered coat as she went in, with her head down and a face that I have never seen. I heard incessant screams afterwards. They pierced through both my ears and heart. I wanted to go to the house but my legs won’t move. In a heartbeat, they moved the opposite direction, headed home.
I crashed in my bed full of questions in my head and a sudden desire to do something. The following day went by and the next day, and the next day, but Poppy never went back to my house. I built up the courage to head to her's
I knocked on the door. Once, twice, thrice, but not a word from anyone inside the house answered me. I decided to peek through a window. My body shivered and a chill unfamiliar to me ran through my spine. My head was spinning into directions unknown. There in the middle of the room was Poppy, looking disheveled. Her eyes were open and full of distraught. Her face was covered in blood and her clothes in pieces. I can’t tell if she was breathing or not. I tapped the window. She had no reaction. I tapped again, harder and then a face of a woman dressed in a what looks like a 18th century gown stumbled onto my field of vision. She had a face of a doll, but on her left hand was a scalpel. She dragged Poppy’s body from the floor and they disappeared into the dark.
I never heard from Poppy since then. I knew from the very sight of the scalpel that Poppy was murdered. There were times when I would go walk to the house where Poppy used to live and would hear screams from it. I reported it once to the police, had Mom take me, but when they called us back, they said no one lived there. Was it my imagination? Or was Poppy my imagination and everyone else’s? I would wake up everyday with Poppy’s sweet laughter and bloody screams in my ears.