-Your Portrait-
Bony thin fingers, the stain of yellow tinged between wrinkles, shaking, moving forward. Fingernails chewed to the stub of the finger, and then, the touch of the canvas,
“Ahh,” slipping from her dry, cracked lips, was this a sigh of surprise or relief that the painting was really there?
She chewed on the inner flesh of her shallow cheeks, her jaw bones protruding making her delirious eyes seem all the more enlarged, the whites of them crossed with visible red veins.
Her name was Mary although her age she has long forgotten, barely able to walk, her mind astray, she was deranged and dying.
This painting had consumed her, the vial images cursed her dreams, her thoughts, she never ate or drank just stared, her eyes slowly glazed over, dreams and reality mixed. What was real and what wasn’t had no meaning.
Mary slumped upon the canvas, her weathered face pressed against the oil paint, wispy strands of grey hair stuck to dried saliva coming from her gaping mouth.
The pit of her stomach lurched, pain spreading throughout her being, her heart going ever so slowly. She hummed her stained fingers running down the canvas,
“The devil…the devil…the devil…” she continued to utter until her heart stopped.
“Ever been near something… that made you feel like you were losing your mind? Something so evil, you can feel it right down to your bone marrow, that…that twitch…you know?” He grinned nervously, his fingers waving absently in the air, flannel shirt, thongs exposing his toes… well the toes left. “A… twitch, you wanna move…wanna do something…but at the same time you’re too scared to?”
“Rodger, Rodger,” smoke curled upwards from the freshly lit cigarette, dangling from the side of this mouth, the landlord. “I pay you to clean, not complain.”
Middle aged Rodger swung forward in his chair, his lazy eye waving around wildly, “I’m telling you Mr Landlord…there is something wrong with that place, tis a feeling a very bad feeling, suffocating…”
“Now Rodger, I’ve been up there myself, I don’t know what you could possibly be talking about, there is nothing but the smell of an old woman to complain of, no feelings? No obscure feelings? Rodger don’t tell me you’re scared of ghost stories, scared the little old dead lady will come for you in the night? Don’t be so ridicules,” the landlord put on a half hearted laugh.
Rodger screwed up his freckled face, he knew he was not the one being ridicules, “Then, Mr Landlord, come up there, I’ll show you, I’ll show you what I mean.”
The Landlord rolled his eyes, before getting up, “Then old Rodger, will you leave me alone? If I entertain your fantasy?”
Not much of a street, even less of an apartment, right next to the junkyard, chipped white stairs led up the side of a dark building, leading only to one door.
Rodger flicked through the keys on his belt of his many cleaning jobs, before pulling a key up.
“Honestly I could be doing so much better right now, leading me on goose chases over ‘bad feelings’,” The landlord was a small man, unnaturally clean, the clean that makes one have dandruff because they dig so deep into their skull.
The door creaked open, the odour of death still lingered about the place, Rodger moved into the apartment motioning the landlord to follow, the apartment was old, it stood here before the junk yard, before all the factories, the woman had inhabited here for 50 odd years.
“She never left it…for 20 years,” Rodger said looking to the landlord, his forehead furrowed.
Mr Landlord hovered by the door, an uneasy feeling coming over him, ice seemed to be crawling up him, from the matt at the front door. Shrugging off his discomfort, he stepped into the house, mixes of odours met him. Dead old woman, sour milk and dust, he held his nose, “Ok Rodger I came,”
Rodger seemed different, he was gazing in another direction, “Rodger?” Christ the landlord didn’t want to admit it, but the longer they lingered there the more he felt cold, his heart being squeezed.
Rodger turned, his head down, the landlord gazed at his bald spot, “Don’t you feel it now?” The middle-aged man slowly looked up, “I feel…desperate, longing…”
The Landlord grabbed the side of his jacket pulling it around him more securely, “I thought I told you to clean this place… it stinks,” he took a step further, then he saw it, was it really something to pick out? Just some simple object that probably hadn’t been cleared from the ladies apartment yet… but something about it, captured, enticed.
He stepped forward, strange emotions swept through him, he didn’t feel clean anymore, he wanted to be cleaner, he scratched at his arm, ‘must take the dirt off’ he thought.
Nothing particularly special about it, just a painting, an oil painting, the edges of the frame all chipped, but the painting its self in remarkable condition, dark were the colours, something cold… was portrayed from them, blacks and dark blues, greys and violets, but the man in the picture… his face was a skin tone one could not explain, creamy…smooth, but for some reason clammy looking, what was probably the most peculiar of the painting was the mans features…they seemed a mix, a mix all different aspects of a human face, one moment you looked the face looked one way, the next the other, soft features mixed with sharp features, one thing that didn’t change was the eyes though, anyway you looked at it, the same colour, the same depth, the same feeling of them watching you. Something about this, was wrong, wasn’t natural, a face that no one could possess, but what the painting evoked was worse then any image that would come to mind, for what the painting made one feel was far worse. Mouth parched and an uncomfortable movement in the bowls, a feeling of all over dread but still…a feeling of longing, for what?
“What’s this Rodger?” He dragged his eyes away looking to the cleaner, “I thought everything had to be removed from the apartment?”
Rodger’s head was facing down, he looked up to the landlord a sort of confused expression on his face, “I tried to move it…it wont come down.”
She couldn’t go for anything more expensive, in the midst of a divorce and barely funds enough to feed herself and her two children. She had finally found a place fitting her situation, a bargain really, far too cheap for any normal 2 room apartment. Asides from being right across town it was really a god blessing, she didn’t have much furniture to move anyway, leaving the majority with her husband at their family home.
Alora had always been an independent woman, married at a young age and moved away from her parents she was use to the ‘hard road’ her husband and her both having to work to support themselves before finally getting enough to start a family.
Now at the age to 32, Alora had two children Jacob and Belinda, ages 5 and 2, both much resembling their father with his light complexion, wavy hair, broad features and warm eyes.
Alora every much adverse to this, she was not a tall woman, exceptionally thin, she had a drawn looking face, perhaps because of the divorce and her recently quitting smoking. Her eyes were dark, almost to the colour of black, lashes thick, her complexion a deep tan to match her dark brown hair. She use to have stunning eyes, eyes that would draw anyone in, with her quick wit, and her talent of deception she would almost always get what she wanted with them, but now as the years drew on, the stress catching up, her eyes had lost that glint, wrinkles forming in the edges, her deception behind her motives easier for one to tell.
What had once been a happy young woman, leaving her childhood behind and making something of herself, had turned into a woman with barely money to support herself, a hate for her husband and an outlook on the world that was neither, happy nor sad just numb.
Chipped white steps, Alora held Belinda against her chest and clasped Jacob’s hand she was too cautious to let go on these stairs, just leading upwards along a brick wall, harsh winds pressed against them and if Alora looked out all she saw was the junk yard.
The man in front seemed a shady character, their landlord Mr Davis, his hair going grey although he looked the age of only 40, he was peculiar, what sort of person wore suits in this day? And his skin, was light pink, almost like he had been scrubbing off the top layer when he washed, clean, eerily clean.
He whipped his brow as they got to the top, “Well here we are Mrs Joson, number 32 Burwick avenue,” He passed over the keys, as Alora reached for them, she saw him visibly shacking.
Clasping them in her hand, she saw a nervous glint in his eyes, “Why is this place so cheap anyway?”
A false sort of grin crossed his pink face, “Who wants to buy an apartment next to a junkyard?” with this he let out a hefty laugh, his face suddenly looking ten years older, starting to turn he stopped looking back, “Well you see, if there is anything to need, anything, any problems that occur, well you have my number…” something with the way he said this made Alora feel uneasy, “Ok…” she said as she saw him trumping off down the stairs, slipping the key into keyhole she felt a draft crawl up her wrist, she shivered before turning the lock and opening the door.
Something about the feeling she was greeted with wasn’t right, she knew it was probably because this was a new place, a new life, to her everything seemed to be become some omen, stepping into the old apartment, the front door lead directly into the lounge, but instantly here eyes were drawn to a painting. She placed her children down who went running into the house, their furniture had already been moved in, but Alora stood and stared. This wasn’t hers, what was this painting doing in here?
Alora paused awkwardly at the door, the children running, her eldest squeals of glee towards a new place, but Alora eyes were drawn, her very insides seemed to be turned to stone.
Her finger tips touched her forehead, she felt heat, a fever. Was she coming down with something? All she knew was something about what she saw was not right, the eyes of the man, were sharp and pinprick.
The air was stiff, fog blurring the windows, entrapped in the dark apartment. The paint a pale grey, stained with brown patches, the stains on the carpet even more disturbing, crusty, dark brown, like the stains of blood.
Throwing down the ratty tablecloth, a sigh left her cold lips, a chill always enveloped her in this new place, the phone had just been connected and yet she felt as far away from communication as ever.
Something weird…somehow this place was weird, a recurring thought in her mind, she could have just got the spooks from that intrusive painting, the children themselves taking a unnatural liking to it. They studied it. Her voice of mother authority not doing much to deter them from finding a new place in the house to occupy. Stress, unbelievable stress, to amount to the chronic headaches, her hand slipped to her pocket, lighter, cigarette, smoke. Who cares if she had said she’d give up, here she was alone, two children to care for and no job. So what if they all thought she was a failure of a mother? She inhaled, warmth filling her mouth, her nostrils, already Alora relaxed, a nervous urge suppressed.
Her room the last, was bare with no windows, just a double bed and a large closet, wooden and inserted into the wall, must have been as old as the house, Alora stood by the door peering in, she couldn’t bear to watch the children, couldn’t bear it being rubbed in her face. Her skin crawled with sweat, walking in she lay back on the bed, her hair ruffled and knotted, she slowly closed her eyes…
Greed and touch, head thumping, scrambling. Tears boiling down the woman’s cheeks, She’d push back if she could, the man so sinister, someone they cared for… now stood over her like the very phantom of her worst nightmare. Pleading, pleading could do little, in the mans eyes, there was one intent and one intent alone.
Alora gasped her eyes flying open, hands gripping at the sheets, on this bed, in this house, death, Stumbling up she looked to the bed, before her the visions replaying, sharp vivid scenes, the woman, her screams. The man and his vulgar way of dealing with her, even as the woman panted in horror her breath leaving little after little, his hands grasped around her throat, sweat dripping down his forehead.
Alora gasped holding her head, looking away, wishing, wishing the images away, turning away, another feeling coming over her, she saw herself, before her very eyes, herself opening the cupboard. Following, why could she see her self?
Band, tied tight around her upper arm, Alora unable to make out what the image of herself was doing, her form cringed before letting her head fall back with a sigh, Alora saw it… the needle drawn from the soft flesh of her visions arm.
Alora’s gut locked up, she was alerted by a pain in her arm, grasping her arm, she took a step back the woman in front of her swinging her arm around after removing the band… Alora knew all this… blood circulation… finding the vein by tying the arm… Alora knew because… this was her past, what dirty secrets she kept, her hidden life. The very illegal substances that she has injected so many times in the past.
“This isn’t me…:” she cried, tears rolling down her face, what was this? Why was she getting these images?
Given up that past, cursed by that past, her ruined marriage, her ruined self… a noise, louder and louder reached her ears… the phone. Her vision cleared, the closet door closed again, the feeling in the room normal once again, lowering her hands from her face Alora looked around, when she reached the door she swung it closed, swore not to open it again.
“How are you?” His voice… her husband, relief yet frustration flared up in her, clearing her throat of the resent tears.
“Fine, the children are well, I guess that’s why you rang?”
“I rang cause I’m concerned, you don’t return my calls, you didn’t even tell me where you had gone off to…for fucks sake your mother told me your new phone number,”
“You should know I don’t want to have any communication with you anymore, I filed a divorce.” She heard a sigh over the other side of the phone.
“Do you ever think of addressing me by my name anymore? It’s always ‘you’”
Alora paused, perhaps a feeling of guilt, she had loved this man once, but now she hated him, she hated him, “Why…Why should I?”
“What is it that I exactly did wrong?”
“Because…” her voice caught in her throat, images of what had just happened coming to her mind, the needle in her arm, her arm still piercing with pain, “If I had never met you…I wouldn’t have…its all because of you, you ruined my life!”
“…Alora…no matter what the truth is you won’t think about it any other way will you? No matter what you accuse me of… I never stuck any needle in your arm… I never forced you to do anything is it easier blaming me for what happened to you rather then yourself?”
Maybe this hurt so much because it had that element of truth, her inner weakness, she clenched her fist, “What do you want?”
“I want us to work this out, I would like to see the children.”
“Not…right now… I’ll ring you.” She hung up without him answering, sliding onto the floor, she wept. Weak, getting older, and wept, what was left for her now she struggled to construct, her children… once, she had been that mother who would have been there for them, once before the drugs had wriggled into her existence. So young, when she met him, her husband, so young when she was introduced into his world. Back then wasn’t it fine, when one had no commitments, even when they married he begging her to give them up, what right did he have? What right when it was in his world were she had been introduced to them.
Gaunt, and barely the woman she once was, he stayed rational, she did not. The people she acquainted herself with, her lust turning away from her husband to others, less and less at home, less and less with the children. She blamed her failures on him, everything on him, because she was scared, so scared to see her own faults, jealous that he was like he was, that he could hold himself up, that he didn’t fall to the petty levels she did. If only he would do something, anything at all to tint his perfect morals, maybe then she would forgive him, her own regrets being cleared.
Pushing the mattress out of the corner, the second night for sleeping in discomfort, flickering lights across the grey walls, floor illuminated by the television. She lay her head on the soft pillow, about to close her eyes when she caught the image of the man in the painting… her second night in the lounge room, she would not bear to be in the room of thous dreaded images, but the other night the man in the painting had been starring at her, pushing it aside as superstition, but still tonight making sure her bed was in a rather adverse position to the night before… still the eyes starred right at her. Rising from the mattress, she compelled herself to stroll across the room while her eyes were planted on the painting, the eyes, black eyes, pinprick and harsh, watched her, no matter where she stood the feeling of them watching her evident. Just like they said of the Mona Lisa, where ever in the room the eyes starred. Alora stepped forward, walking up to the painting she had never been this close before, purposely avoiding the fowl image of the man… it wasn’t that exactly the man was ugly, but at the same time not beautiful, one could not pick a fault, although one could also not pick a appealing feature. The closer she was the more her head swam, the face was different, for some reason the features softer, nose rounder, eyes slightly more oval, a chubbiness starting to appear around the cheeks. Alora was confused, had not this mans face been gaunt and sharp when she had first arrived at this apartment. Her fingers started to etch closer to the paint, she wondered, amazed and frightened.
“MUM!!” she heard Jacobs screams from the bedroom, the cry of her little girl also, withdrawing her hand quickly from the painting she hurried to the children’s bedroom.
Her baby girl standing up in her crib screaming, her little chubby hands covering her eyes, Jacob curled in a defensive position, his arms wrapped securely around him legs, calling repeatable for his mum. Alora switched the light on, looking around at them both, “What’s wrong?” she moved to the crib picking up Belinda before going over to the bed, “Jacob? Jacob are you listening?”
He continued to weep before starring off under the crib, Alora turned confused although she saw nothing, she turned back grabbing Jacobs hand guiding him as she held Belinda to the lounge room.
Small Belinda hid her head in the curb of Alora’s neck, Alora rubbed her babies back trying to comfort the two year old from crying anymore. Jacob also clung to her side, hiding his face in the side of her arm.
“What is it?” almost impatient to know what had rivalled the children up so much.
“There…was,” Jacobs small voice started to speak up between sobs, “under the bed, there was someone under the beds,”
Alora grabbed Jacobs face forcing him to look her dead in the eyes, “You’re not lying are you? I didn’t see anything under the beds.”
Jacob cried more, “Sam said… Sam said he would,”
Confusion surfaced, Alora screwed up her brow trying to stay calm, trying not to fly off into dismay, nothing made the tiniest inkling of reason. “What?... Who’s Sam? Sam said what?”
Jacob cried for a few minutes before his little hand raised, he pointed, Alora felt her stomach turn over, before looking to where her son had pointed, the face of the man, the man in the painting.
“He said, he’d come.”
Alora placed down the phone, morning had arrived, the apartment lacking light a stuffy sent of dust, the children had stayed with her that night, they would not go back to there bedroom, aware that letting her imagination carry her away was not the best for this sort of situation, she considered putting Jacobs terms down to some childish game he had conceived of.
Even so, Alora took measures to get out of the apartment, organising to see her sister.
Leaving the apartment, always brought a feeling of relief as if she was being released by some hidden bond.
“You look horrible,” Caitlyn’s face showed concern, her long fingers pushing the hair behind Alora’s ears, they sat in Caitlyn’s newest partners house, these sisters being the very contrast to each other, while Alora was short, Caitlyn was quite tall, while Alora had dark hair and tanned skin, Caitlyn was quite pale with freckles, her hair a wavy mess of very light brown almost red. Alora always had sharp, alluring features, while her sister although also having a gaunt face had round soft eyes, small round nose and thin lips, reminding one of a kind puppy dog.
Caitlyn’s slim finger ran under Alora’s left eye, inspecting the dark evident rings, “Haven’t you been sleeping?” Caitlyn pursed her lip in a fashion she always took when concerned.
Alora shook her head, how could she? How could anyone sleep in an apartment like their own, shrouded in the mysteries of the past, “Everything just seems to be falling apart,”
Caitlyn knitted her brow, “Hows Marcus?”
Alora curled her lip at this remark, her good for nothing ex husband, what really did he have to do with the current situation? “How would I know, we don’t talk. And if you think my current demeanour is because of him, you are quite mistaken. A lot more happens then the coming and goings of partners. It’s more my living arrangements to be exact.”
“Living arrangements?” mimicked Caitlyn, “Isn’t the new place a well enough vocation for you?”
“The arrangement is fine to be sure, it is not that which distresses me, more that strange, well really unnatural occurrences that have ever been present since first moving in there,”
Like much of what Alora ever said to her sister, twas taken through one ear and let out through the other, although kind faces and empathetic hands these were all the very face value, for as it is seen not always does one sister care for the other.
“So where are we to go exactly?”
“32 Burwick Avenue, thanks,” Alora answered, her visit with her sister as much as she had expected, not really much of sisters they were. Ever since childhood that stereo typical bond between sisters had never been there. Parents favouring different children, while detesting the other, these stresses only pushing sisters further away from each other. In a world where because of jealousy their bond could never be fixed, and although Caitlyn smiled sweetly, told Alora to call her any time, Alora knew, Caitlyn did not care for the happening of herself. Just as much as Alora didn’t care for the happenings of her sister.
“That old property hey,” the driver said in quite an altered voice, turning a corner in the road a little too fast, nervous Alora thought the driver was nervous.
“Yes we have been there a week now,” she answered, peering back at the children in the backseat.
“Hmmm… people don’t last long at that place,” the drivers brows were knitted, he was what you would call the typical 30 year old male, tall, thin, average looking and shaved.
A stiffness clung to the air, Alora’s breathing almost coming to a stand still, “What is it about that place?” Nothing made sense, one did not want to believe that, this apartment was…well cursed, haunted, unnatural.
“Ten years ago, apparently an old lady died up there, starvation its said. But that’s not what really gets people, its more the fact that, well she was completely insane its said, didn’t leave that apartment for 20 odd years. Groceries delivered to the door, everything. No visitors, Christ I guess she had no family or friends left, don’t know how long it took them to find the body but I’m sure it wouldn’t have been a pretty sight,” The driver looked to Alora, she was speechless although she did wonder why he was telling her this, “Since then, no ones lasted long there, weird occurrences, well really horrible occurrences…”
“What…what sort of…occurrences?”
The taxi pulled up outside the bleak building, driver looked down before gazing up into Alora’s eyes, “Miss, I wouldn’t want to alarm you, sometimes stories you don’t know are for the best, take care.”
Paying the driver and getting her sleeping children out of the backseat, Alora felt foreboded.
Struggling up the icy stairs, shoving the key into the keyhole, the door pushed ajar, the painting before her, her heart could of skipped a beat. As soon as she entered that apartment it was like she has never left. All the confusing feelings came clustering back, her head starting to hurt, lying the children down on the mattress’s on the floor. Alora ran fingers through her greasy hair, when had she last bathed? Last week.
What…what had the driver meant? If he knew about these weird occurrences, did that mean that everyone in this side of town knew about this apartment and the ‘strange’ happenings?
Rushing to the kitchen, flicking through the pieces of paper on the bench, a split moment she caught her reflection in a near by mirror, her face seemed more gaunt then normal, the black rings growing under her eyes.
Reaching the phone, she dialled the number the landlord had gave her,
“beep….beep….beep,” Alora scowled shoving the phone back down, one of her hands itching at the side of her face, grabbing up a smoke she lit and puffed.
Why would the landlords phone be disconnected? …or had it always been?
Her stomach churned, turning itself over, Alora gasped at the pain, stomach alignments were common for her when she was stressed.
The room went cold, frost building on the windows, white clouds appearing from Alora’s mouth, shuddering she heard her children start to yelp in their sleep, rushing into the lounge she saw them both sleeping soundly.
Taking a breath of ease, she started to relax, although the cold chilling her badly, something about the air was heavier then usual, she had to leave this apartment, she knew it she had to leave.
Her eyes started to drift from the floor like they did while in this room, to the painting, thous eyes that watched you wherever you were, thous dark pinprick pools. At that moment all seemed to stop, Everything came rushing over her in one heap, because as she looked at that painting she saw what was changing, she saw the new difference in the painting.
The features…were starting to be childlike.
Shock, horror, discourse, why? How could this be happening to her? She knew she wasn’t the perfect mother, she wasn’t the perfect person, she’d made her mistakes like anyone. Maybe some mistakes worse then most. She’d been selfish, she’d cheated, she’d lied, but still why would this happen to her?
Even the worse sort of person could not deserve this, for as soon as Alora saw thous childlike features on the mans face in the painting, she knew who the man was starting to resemble. Her own children, her own dearest children, attempting to drag her gaze away from the painting to her children was too hard, her eyes stinging as everything set in.
The more she starred the more she saw it progress, the change in the mans features, how her child’s faces started to blend in with all the other features. When she has entered this house, hadn’t it been, she could not say the picture was ugly or beautiful, she could not pick which features were nice and which were not. Was this because, every feature in this painting was blending in with all the other faces the painting had consumed? And the man, the distinct man in the painting, who was he?
Her heart seemed to be freezing over, everything coming to mind, the landlords pink skin, the image of her injecting herself, the screaming children, the woman who hadn’t left the apartment for 20 odd years, Jacob had said ‘Sam’, the man in the painting was called Sam… but Alora knew who Sam really was.
“Devil….” She uttered her voice sounded cracked and hoarse, she didn’t know how long she had stood there, but the room was already dark, shadows growing, the face in the painting, he looked…as if he was smiling.
She felt her nails dig into her arms, she wasn’t making her body do anything at all, it seemed to have a will of its own, so hard it started to sting, but she stared, her children… he was taking her children.
She could see it all now, wasn’t everything usually more important then her children? Wasn’t scoring so much more important? Didn’t she blame it all on her husband, her getting left with the children, she despised the fact that she was held back, this was why she took drugs, this was why she cheated. Responsibility, something she would never handle, and in the end she became the ‘bad’ wife, she became the ‘bad’ mother, for well all for herself.
Her heart breaking to pieces before her, this wasn’t what she wanted, when she met him all she ever wanted was to have a family, a loving caring family. She wanted to be loved, she needed to be loved, valued. What she missed from her parents, what she missed from society, she married expecting a quick fix. But even nothing changed, because deep down within her, she wouldn’t let anything work out she tinted everything.
Tears rolled down Alora’s face, her heart breaking, if she could she would go back, she would fix everything, she wanted to be the good mother, she wanted to be the good wife.
Faces blending, her children feeling further and further away from her, clasping her hand into a fist she glared into the painting,
“Take me, take me instead.”
Wishing her past away, this was her selfless act, she wanted nothing more then to save her children, for that she would even give up herself.
Marcus was a tall man, wavy hair, round features, hansom, well looked after. Although even through that he carried the marks of stress, the scars of mistakes, he walked now up icy stairs. A blackened building beside him, his hand sliding along the rail, it had taken him a while, but he had finally found where they lived.
A rap on the door, another rap, but no answer, until finally the door squeaks opens his little boy standing in front of him, his face pale as a ghost, “Jacob?” Marcus utters.
Jacob starts to sob before hugging his dad around the legs, “Mum…something’s wrong with mum,”
There she was, a shadow of the woman she was, her body moving breathing but her mind not there. She sat, sat and stared, the painting before her, uttering, just uttering mindless babble. Her eyes wide like an owl, drool coming from her mouth, tufts of hair clenched in her skinny hands.
She took no notice of anyone, not her children, not her husband, not even the paramedics when they arrived, she smiled absently at the painting.
She could see herself, herself in his face, Alora was 32 and she was insane.
BY Alexandra Wood
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Chapter notes: This is my first non fanfic fiction, I guess I was testing out my writing skills and style when not baseing my whole inspiration on something already known, for instance we all know how Sasuke/Naruto/Sakura act, so to write fanfiction I just have to move within the guide lines. With writing a story fully from my own influence I think it is quite a bit more difficult and brings out more of my writing style.
This was supposed to be a 'short' gothic fiction, the teacher assigned us, but as you will see mine did not meet the 500 word limit...it passed it to 5000 words plus.
Im quite happy with the way it turned out, the main character Alora based on my own mother, and the story actually a true story although very very altered.