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There Was Once Happily Every After (P.1)

by - Saturday, February 18, 2017

What's the best way than spending your weekend snuggling into a good juicy story? 

There Was Once Happily Ever After is a short story that I wrote in my first semester of degree. I was hit with the strong inspiration to write something and I spent half the night typing, editing and retyping this story out. The original title was "The Story of Cindy" but I've JUST thought of changing the title to something more fresh and new.

No part of this story can be copied, re-edited or used for personal needs or other. Please contact me for proper consent first.

With that brushed out of the way, scroll down through the story and enjoy!
Elegant, Flourish, Floral, Decorative, Ornamental

The True Story of Cindy
Syazwani Izzati Azhar


Oh, God she’s coming for me. God, save me. A painful cold shiver runs up my spine as fear shakes my body violently. Sitting on the creaking wooden chair behind a desk, I huddled my frozen knees to my chest as I stare at the blank piece of paper before me.

A pen in my grasp.

A dying lit candle fluttering from the whispers of the wind.

The scent of death lingering like poisonous roses hangs in the air.

My chest tightens at the fear of her slithering through the streets in the snow outside. My eyes lit up to the night sky and I noted the absence of stars in the sky. Is it my fate to die alone?

No, I have time left. I’m still alive now and even if I die, others will remember me. I pray hard that someone will avenge my death. She must be found. And thus, I begin to write:

A picture of my sweet Hazel
To whomsoever this letter reaches, I pray it is in safe hands. Dear reader, what I will tell you is something so grave that it involves the merciless, cruel shed of innocent lives and happiness being robbed away from me. I have done nothing wrong to deserve such cruelty.

I have been staying low for the last few days, moving from one hiding place to another and hiding my tracks from her. I don’t know how long this will last but it won’t go on forever. One day, she’ll be standing by my door and I will stare into the face of death. Or perhaps I would have already been dead by the time this letter reaches you.

While she is still out there, she will try to quench her thirst for my blood. I sit here and cherish each rasping cold breath I have left. Reader, do me the justice by reading in what I have to say.

Back in those ignorant and happy days, I had a beautiful normal family of four living in the comfiest little home in the heart of town. We find comfort and fulfillment in the company of families and friends. During the evenings, the little sitting room we so often reside as a family together would be filled with smiles and laughter from Father, Mother, Hazel, and me as we share jokes and stories. You see, we had to really appreciate the time we had together as Father wasn’t always home.

Father was a huge investor in the spice trade in the hot, humid country of India. He traveled to other countries from all over the world too. When he came back home in between his travels, he would place me on his lap and show me the book of atlas and help me tick the mysterious places he’d been. Sometimes, he would give exotic gifts and treasures to Hazel and me. I loved him.

They were… good times, weren’t they? But like all good things, they never ever last.

Things happened so quickly it almost felt like a dream. A telegram from the British embassy arrived home stating that father had died on his journey from India. Mother and Hazel buckled to the floor and broke down in tears as the news sunk into the very depths of our hearts of fears. I kept my tears behind the lens of my reddened eyes. I leaned heavily by father’s favourite armchair and slid down to the carpeted floor, hiding my face from the rest. No, my heart told me, they are all lies and he’ll come through the door with a smile on his face like he usually does.

‘It’s alright, Father will never leave us, would he, Mother?’ I once asked. Mother said nothing but she didn’t need to. The silent air answered the plain truth.

After that tragedy, my childish hopes ruined me as I waited for father to arrive day by day from the window sill. However, my faith faded with each passing tick of the old grandfather clock beside the staircase. After some time, I gave up waiting for him. I did so because while the rest of us were coping, Father’s death had a huge toll on Mother. She was close to looking like the death itself; sitting so still on the rocking-chair and looking into the fire hearth from sunken eyes. She said not a word and did nothing. 

Hazel barely recognized her because she didn’t feel like our mother. She was so wallowed up in her misery that she neglected her responsibility to care for us both, let alone herself.

Mother wasn’t “there” when our relatives visited and casted pitiful glances at our way. She wasn’t there when the servants got the sack and I had to take over the house chores. She wasn’t there when Hazel took her first day in school. I was so young to carry so many burdens on my shoulders and I felt frustrated. But what can I do? We only got each other to depend on. 

However, one winter, we almost lost Hazel to a fever and somehow, that snapped Mother back to reality and she finally saw sense. She gradually pulled herself together and tried to keep whatever we had from falling apart. Like all of us, she was determined to have our normal life again.

Not long after with Mother doing what she does best; being our pillar of strength, Hazel shining the house with her innocent laughter and me watching over them, Mother unexpectedly revealed the news that she was forming a new relationship with a man, a close friend of father’s. His name was Mr. Stephan, a strong and kind man in his mid-forties. He was also a widower who had lost his wife many years ago.

During one of his visits, he introduced us to his only daughter, Cindy, a girl of my age with soft golden curls, striking grey eyes and small lips set on a pretty face. Throughout our encounter, she did not utter a word. Soulless and blank eyes, and arms clutching a worn porcelain doll to her chest, she said nothing. I didn’t have much of an opinion of Cindy at the time other than being extremely reserved for a girl her age. Oh, how foolish was I! In the meantime, after the doubtful success in our introduction, Mother and Mr. Stephan got married not long afterward.

Figure, Man, Person, Elegant, Art

I felt Mother was betraying Father but I remembered how much I wanted her to be happy and Hazel was so fond of Stephan, so I kept myself quiet. My new stepfather was also a likable man and I was convinced he could take us all out of our misery for good. Right after the wedding, we moved into his beautiful bungalow. 

This too, was when strange eerie things began to happen and one that changed our lives for the worse. 



She was the curse of it all.


Are you already hooked to the story? Got comments? Share them below and I'll post the second and last part of the story where the story truly turns.

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