The Window Beckons
The Window Beckons stories
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My whole life has been defined by a window. The old bay window in my parents’ bedroom on the second floor of our old house. I was born in that very room. My mother didn’t trust the hospital, so she opted for a home birth.
By The__Angsthase https://www.reddit.com/r/...

The Window Beckons

by The__Angsthase

My whole life has been defined by a window. The old bay window in my parents’ bedroom on the second floor of our old house. I was born in that very room.

My mother didn’t trust the hospital, so she opted for a home birth.

I swear I can still feel the warm rays of sunshine filtering through the thick glass, shining across my face the moment I came into this world.

It was the window that I pressed my nose against to watch the snow coat the neighborhood on Christmas morning.

When I had bad dreams, I would sleep on the window sill, soothed by the protecting presence of my parents. One summer, Dad bought a telescope. He set it up in the bedroom.

On clear nights, we could stare at the stars together, marveling at the mysteries of the universe. It was the window that we listened to the rain tap against during storms.

There was always something about how the thunder would make that window rattle that excited me.

It was the window that kept me occupied when my father left and never came back. It was the window whose glass shattered so easily as my mother leapt through it.

I can still hear the shards dancing on the ground around her when she landed on the concrete. Their delicate chimes almost made the horror bearable.

I replayed the noise in my head as my things were packed into a moving van, and I was driven away to a foster home.

The window was the last thing I saw when I took a final look at the house in the rear view mirror.

It’s funny, isn’t it? How one single thing can conjure up a lifetime of images? How it can define you?

Even after all of this time, the window is the only thing that makes me happy. It’s the only thing that I have left.

The only place I can escape to, where I can revel in the memories of better times. I tell myself that this is the reason that I keep coming back to the old house.

But there’s more to it than that.

The window beckons to me. It calls out my name. It wants to claim me. Wants me all to itself. It would be so easy. To toss myself into it and submit.

The window beckons to me, and after all that it has given me, who am I to deny it?

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