Romans & histoires Edgar Allan Poe Poetry Alone

Anna’s POV The night had never felt this long. The streets stretched endlessly before me, glistening faintly beneath the pale kiss of the moonlight. Every stone I stepped on echoed back at me, a small, hollow reminder that I was alone. Alone in a world that felt too wide, too cold, and too cruel for someone like me—and for the small life I held close to my chest.

And, come alone. I stared at the paper in my hand, my fingers trembling as I read the words over and over again. Come alone. The phrase echoed in my skull like the tolling of a funeral bell, each repetition sinking deeper into the pit of my stomach. I could feel the color drain from my face. My breath caught in my throat, the room suddenly too quiet, too still, too small. He knew where I lived.

The carousel was still there, spinning round as if nothing had changed. I bought a ticket and sat on the same familiar horse. The wind blew against my face. I closed my eyes. For a moment, I could still hear my daughter's laughter… and David warning me, "Be careful." This time, no one was with me. I rode alone. A wave of dizziness washed over me. I knew death was near. I forced my eyes open, but the world grew more and more blurred. With trembling hands, I pulled out my phone and used the last of my strength to dial a number I had not called in years.

He shoves the cellular phone at me and I hastily poke around until I have pulled up the picture gallery. The first photo stops me dead in my tracks. A light scar in her eyebrow, light freckles around her eyes and nose, heterochromia in one eye. The only difference is the little stud in her nose, the feathering of the hair, and the modern clothing. It is like looking at Elsie alive again. I pinch my nose bridge as I flip through the rest of the photos. Her graduation, random self shots, pictures of nature, plants...the plants. Elsie's love of nature, plants and the supernatural is what contributed to her demise.

As I scrolled down, I came across a photo. Her account was mostly filled with videos of her singing. She rarely shared photos. In this one, she was sitting at a table, hand on her cheek, gazing out at the sea. My eyes drifted to the caption underneath: They do not know, those who do not live alone, What fear silence brings to a person; How a person speaks to themselves; How they run to mirrors, Longing for a soul, They do not know. She’d shared a poem by a Turkish author.

And beneath it, scrawled in messy, unhurried ink: You thought you had uncovered everything. But you still don’t know who you really are. Come alone, or she dies. —V

I've been so engrossed in getting away from here that I totally forgot my safe place. Poems. There was something about every poem I loved because in a way, I related to them. I quickly thought of the exact one to recite. It was then. Another favorite piece by a poet I found on internet which goes as, “When everything’s darkness And you feel so alone, When the rain doesn’t stop And you can’t make it home…” I trailed out. The wordings of the song registered my head. Was everything darkness for me? Following how I was kidnapped from my home, it was dark.

The Editors' algorithms flagged it as a repetitive glitch, but could not delete the profound, unsettling beauty of its imperfection. On another world, a philosopher, whose life's work was a logically airtight proof for universal contentment, abruptly published a single, nonsensical haiku about the loneliness of prime numbers. It spread through the population like a virus, not of disease, but of quiet, generative doubt.

An organic function, devoid of pleasure. My solitude, suddenly, takes on physical weight. It thickens in the conditioned air. It follows me, this damp, cold cloak, through these spaces that could house a hundred people but house only the echo of our footsteps. I am alone in the midst of this display of power. Alone with him. — Upstairs, now, he announces, heading towards a staircase.

Hearing Freya's blatant lies, I furiously lunged at her. She was lying. I never called her to curse at her! She was the liar! However, my soul passed straight through her. No matter how much rage I felt, I couldn't touch her. I crouched down in frustration. Weren't ghosts supposed to be powerful? Why was I so useless? Patrick spoke again, his voice turning even colder. "Freya, you're certain that Aubree called you often to insult you? That she even wished for you to die soon?"