This is something I wrote for an assignment last semester. For an explanation, please read the last paragraph.. I'm more interested in seeing how anyone might interpret this.
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Each of us enters the world wearing a red veil of innocence which gradually falls off as we venture through our first years of life. Unbeknownst to us, we have arrived in a world of chaos; greed and deception create a predominance of evil.
Each day, I wander down a familiar path dividing tall trees with wildly twisting branches casting abstract shadows along my way. i see these shadows, but my veil conceals the branches from my sight; the slight rustling of the leaves and a sense of closeness are the only things betraying their presence to me. I maintain a steady, casual pace, taking my time to smell the flowers that my parents have so often marveled about. It is very rare that I cross another walking on this path, which suits me; since I have been taught not to talk to strangers, and not to lie, how would I get out of such a situation?
Today I venture beyond my home gates to gain new knowledge. Today, I place my trust in those who are older and wiser than me; I can't learn from their experiences, but I can learn from their words. Unfortunately the words of the older and wiser may be obsolete in this day and age, but they're still the only ones I have.
The old warehouse ahead creeks wearily. I don't know what it is doing in the middle of this jungle. Perhaps it is an attempt at industrialising the area, but nature maintains its end of the battle. Oh yes, these branches will cast menacing shadows with all their might to scare off intruders. There was a tale that continued to be told, a myth with its roots planted a good century ago. There existed in this jungle a tribe that couldn't quite be called human, but were not any other creature. Some said a terrible curse had ripped through the area, tearing them of the spirit that made them human, leaving them as cowering sub-human beasts, simply grasping for threads to survive. Who knew how many of them were left now. But of course, it was just a myth; and how much truth do myths usually hold?
I stop on eroded steps with wooden railings draped with rich green ivy. It looked strange in contrast to the rusted walls of the warehouse. The door groans as I disturb it from its peaceful slumber. Its metal muscles are stiff when I place force on them. I smell dust. I smell the remnants of rotted food, rags, perhaps the clothing of old squatters. It is dark though, but the words never instructed me not to enter dark places; just don't talk to strangers.
What am I meant to feel in here? Fear? No, it is too surreal and I feel like a robot. I venture forward, led only by the ground beneath my feet. I feel a crunch here and there. I am learning here; I am beginning to realise I am still human, and I am feeling fear. Something doesn't feel right, and I don't like it.
I begin to retreat, led through the darkness by a dim patch of light at the other end. I believe this is the doorway, although I can't recall if I have somehow changed direction. My senses are so alert to the silence that I don't hear the creature creep up behind me. My first knowledge of it is from a bony hand grasping my shoulder. Shallow breath on my ear, teasing my eardrum.
I don't stop though. Until I am restrained, able to go no further, this could simply be a figment of my imagination. Darkness does that to people, apparently.
I continue walking, perhaps slightly faster with each step, although still apprehensively because, if I am restrained, the shock won't be so great. I have to be prepared. With each step that light is getting closer. I still can't tell if it's a trap or my way out. Either way though, it is my only thought I have in this moment, so I must continue towards it.
The light is not natural, I find out. It sits on a desk. The desk sits in front of a chair. The chair sits under a person. It is a person? It stares vacantly at the blank desk, ignorant or not caring about my presence. This should be my window to escape, but I don't. I am curious; I need to learn. I remain still, observing.
"Little girl." I hear the creature say. I can't tell whether it is addressing me or stating this to itself. i say nothing.
"It is rude to stare."
I blink involuntarily. It is more an act of surprise, then respecting its wishes. It remains with its head poised downward toward the desk.
Surprisingly, something inside my feels a pain or sympathy for this creature. It sits alone, in the dark, and has been for who knows how long. Perhaps it is a result of my naivety that I think this. Or perhaps it is another lesson of being human.
I see the light more, perhaps in the grasp of its hand, and its face is illuminated. It glares at me through squinting, watery bloodshot eyes, slightly faded colour suggesting it may not see properly. Its cheek bones are dirty and scarred, but it still bears the wrinkles of laughter, frowning and age. Then lips frame stained teeth, and highlight those that are missing. it wears nothing but two rags; one around its neck and the other in the way of a shirt.
He scowls suspiciously at me, "What do you want?"
What do I want? I'm not sure how to answer that. He is a stranger, so I shouldn't talk to him, yet he is addressing me in a dismissive way, so would it really be dangerous?
I answer honestly, "I don't know." I feel stupid.
"Better get out of here then; the wolf doesn't like strangers!"
An involuntary gulp enters my throat, and my eyes widen. I take a few steps back, realising then that I don't know what direction the door is in.
The man laughs; not cruelly, though obviously still amused by my terror.
"You shouldn't trust everything you hear, little girl." His expression changes suddenly. Perhaps the laughter, the momentary distraction from his dark solitude, is a good thing.
"I'm also not supposed to talk to strangers." I say, suddenly trusting the old man for some reason.
He chuckles softly, "then why are you talking to me?"
"You're not a stranger to me. I've heard stories about you, but I now know that I can't trust them. You can't always trust words; you can only trust experience." I wasn't reciting words someone had told me; I was sharing what I had just learned.
I continued walking up that long path dividing tall trees with wildly twisting branches casting abstract shadows along my way, each day following. I continued to approach that warehouse, climbing up the eroded steps with wooden railings draped with rich green ivy.
I still don't talk to strangers; I talk to the man at the desk with the lamp who sits in dark solitude, quietly creating stories of the Wolf, the mythical creature that lurks in the darkness of the forest, preying on those who lose their way.
But it is all just a story.
(C) Copyright.
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Basically, it is a modern rewrite of Little Red Riding Hood.
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