Snowglobes: A short story.

RouRouRou

The violin finished its melody, and the woman with the pale skin and dark hair put the bow on the hardwood floor, and stared out the large window that faced south. Out over the cliffside. She stood from her cross-legged position, and threw the violin onto a beanbag, bright pink and covered in roses. The chocolates, not the flowers. They were her favourite. Slowly barefoot, she padded out of the room now shrouded in twilight and being dominated by long and cackling shadows, and into her upstairs landing. Her house was large. Too large. She resented her husband for purchasing it when he first made his millions. The newspapers said it was a long mental illness. But she knew it was the stress that took him from her. Cyanide and gunshots to the children, delivered like a song to the ear. She turned, humming, back to the bedroom. She couldn't let the instrument out of her sight for any length of time now.
Stepping out the clean sliding door to the southside garden, she sat on the ground, on the snow, the frozen puddles enveloping her with a frosty embrace, freezing her naked legs and attacking her behind, the cold easily penetrating the pale nightgown that lay draped around her slender frame. Her hands chilly, she played to the moon, the stars, and whatever else would listen. The massive green ribbon in the sky danced to her melody. Sam, when he was 6, read from his textbook that it was the magnetic shield protecting the earth from the sun. The funeral was on a sunday. There was a lot of photographs. She wore green.

Her eyes were closed, and her hands moved softly across the bow, and the strings. A crunch made her stop. She opened one eye lazily, like Jenna used to do when she was called to get out of bed in the mornings. Her golden hair would always hide the other one.
What she saw would, if seen years ago, frighten and shock her, but not now. A wolf stood in front of her, head cocked to its right, and blood dripping from its maw. She instantly called it Charlie. Why? She did not know. Charlie stood there, only moving to shake the snow from its back. She had not realised it had begun to snow. The wolf peered at her, and he inhaled. Reason said run. Her hands said play. She played. Charlie sat on the ground, watching her, the blood still running from his mouth onto the virgin snow. She played to the same audience as before, thought this time it was a lament to the animal that Charlie had just removed form the earth. The woman stood, and Charlie stood too. She walked towards him, and he shivered, almost as if she had this power over him. She played a note, and he danced. Charlie danced. He ran to the sound of her lamenting, in small joyous circles that made her play faster. She stopped playing, and then went inside. Charlie stood vigil, a gargoyle in the southside garden.

The Sleeping pills were shaped like a half-moon, and the colour of death. A musky yellow. She swallowed two, and then peered at the brown bottle. Still semi-full, semi-empty. It had a big name on it. The doctor told her it would be for dreamless sleeps, for the nightmares. For the images.
Death first came to her in a dream she had had when she was very little. Death had come to her as a wolf. A dark one. With red eyes, and no name. Just a four words, and a swish of a razorblade tail.
“I will get you.” it was not an angry voice. It was fair, almost pitying. It was in her head now. She talked to it sometimes. She had a conversation with it now.

The bottle was empty. It lay on the snow, and so did she. Outside, it wasn't as cold as she thought it would be. She lay on the ground, asleep, looking exactly the same, but totally different. Charlie strolled over to her, and licked her cheek. He finally got her. With his two front paws, and his nose, she was rolled off the cliffside, and into the waves. The note would say she couldn't handle the memories any more. It would be believed. As she fell, her face contorted into a smile. Charlie howled at the moon, the call echoing around the world, around snowglobes. Charlie held the snowglobes in his paws. He had shattered one more.
On to the next one.

cobsie

here's the thing - this piece probably falls into the 'writing as therapy' category, which is fine and is even under discussion actively in another thread...but sometimes, like dreams and diaries and drunk-dialing, what makes us feel better as individuals has little value to other people.

So, as a piece of fiction this doesn't work on a technical level, but that's not important if that's not really your primary purpose.

As a writing exercise that puts order on intense emotions, it seems cathartic. Maybe that's what you need and if so, I would encourage you to follow on from this. I hope your efforts are successful.