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As The World Passes By

How better to say it than: As told by the doorknob...

A short one shot that popped into my head one night. My first fan fiction!

1. As The World Passes By

Rating 5/5   Word Count 500   Review this Chapter

I am here when first the young couple step through the doorway. So happy, so carefree. The woman laughs and she spins in a circle in the hall. She exclaims to her new husband with excitement for their new hom

I feel the touch of a hand and watch as the woman walks past. She carries paint. Bright yellow paint. She frowns in at the kitchen, then sets to work.

The man’s hand slips and he reaches again toward me. I turn and the woman walks past him out the doorway, a hand on her swollen belly. The house is empty for a while, then they return, a new human with them. This one is tiny and wrapped in a blanket. I soon come to recognize her touch as well.

Sadness. Anger. Regret. The woman throws open the door and ushers the little girl out in front of her. She raises her voice against her husband. The door slams. The man’s touch, the door is open. His voice raises against the rain. He shouts after them for hours. The woman does not return, nor her daughter.

Years pass and the only touch I know is that of the man. Sadness. Loneliness.

Then, another touch. This one familiar. The little girl, not so little anymore. She, too, is lonely.


Was I able, I would shiver. This hand is cold. Hard. This is a hand that has seen many things. The boy of ethereal beauty.

Deep sadness. Raised voices as the girl repeats the words her mother spoke years before. The man stares after her. This time he does not open the door. He does not shout after her.

Acceptance. The man lets her back into his life. He loves her because she is his daughter.

Happiness. Joy. Love. The cold, hard hand becomes a frequent visitor. The boy makes her happy, whole.

Apprehension, I know next. The boy. Something is wrong. He and the girl go out. The boy does not return. Emptiness. When I next feel the girl’s touch, she is empty, her is spirit broken. Darkness.

A new touch. This hand is warm. I know this touch from years before. The hand was younger then, softer. Happiness again. Not whole like before, but relief. Expression graces her eyes once more.

The warm boy’s touch is absent. The girl is broken again.

A change. The warm one is back. The girl has life.

Wet. Weary. Sadness.

I hear the phone. Anger, raised voices. Pleading, begging. The girl rushes out the door, the warm boy hurries behind her. He pleads, begs some more. She leaves, apologizes.

Panic. Fear. Sadness.

The girl returns. With her, the beautiful boy with the cold touch. Happiness again. Love. Suspicion toward the boy from her father. Dislike. Malice. The warm boy is angry. He misses the girl. I feel his touch rarely.

The girl is crying. The cold boy carries her up the stairs. She has chosen between them. I will not feel the warm boy’s touch again.

I stand as a silent observer to witness their lives. As the world passes by.