• For this rotation, we have to write a compelling and dark short story (complete at 150 words) , and we were given some title to get some inspirations.
• And here is my story:

This has got to stop

My mother was mean to me, she always locked me in the basement whenever night fell. A long, thin chain that bound my neck, and my freedom. This made my sleep very poor, and I woke up every early morning with scratches on my arms that touched my eyes. Maybe she was mentally ill, I forgave her, it wasn’t her fault.

“Have any suspicious people come in recently, we’re investigating a case,” the policeman at the door asked, standing lazily.

I sheepishly lifted the scarf around my neck that covered the strangulation marks upwards, “No, everything is normal,” I said.

After the policeman left, my mother, who had been watching me from behind the door, slowly walked out.

“Don’t go out these days, our neighbour’s body was found in a river, be safe” she said

Bad thoughts flashed through my head, I didn’t know how serious my mother’s condition was, was torturing me alone not enough for her anymore?

Stop, what was I thinking, was I going give my own mother up? I shook my head and shook off the irrational thought.

It was night again and I woke up in the dank basement, sweating like I had run a 5,000 metre marathon, having nightmares again, I was so thirsty . . this has got to stop… I can’t take it anymore.

I reported my mother to the police and they took pity on me for the bruises, unexpectedly my mother took it all calmly, she looked at me with sadness in her eyes. “I’m sorry,” I thought can’t let this go any longer.

The soft mattress wrapped around me and I was finally able to get a good night’s sleep.

Unfortunately, I woke up again at three in the morning, not under a warm blanket, I was on the banks of a suburban river. The damp air was like a pair of hands covering my mouth and nose, and I couldn’t be surprised why I was here because, even more frighteningly, David was staring at me, who is a neighbor across the street, half lying in a sack, with stiff body, and suddenly I understood my mother.

It could never be stopped.

Reflections:

Writing in English must be the most difficult thing for international student. But I tried to use the right word and hope the audience could get me.

I wrote more than a hundred and fifty words, but I felt that cutting it down would make the story difficult to understand, so I kept some details. It was difficult for me to convey a clear idea in a few sentences, so I hope I will improve in the future.

An ability to wonder, to ask ‘what if?’ is fundamental to all artistic and creative endeavour.