A Short Note On ' Deep Breaths, ' And Out ' Essays
She couldn’t sleep. She could barely breathe.
For four years Beatrix had followed all leads, dug up any clues she could, admittedly getting no were. She was suddenly feeling claustrophobic. The walls of her room had started to cave in, tightening and closing around her. Until the only things that fit, in her once too big a room, were her and the box.
She wished for the bomb, but at the same time she felt as though a 20 ton elephant had just been lifted off her chest. What doesn’t crush you to death; only makes you heavy. Now she felt as light as a feather. This could be good, this could be what was waiting for. She wanted new information, while there it is!
‘Get a grip, you coward. Just because some stranger with and oddly familiar voice called and told you were to find your mothers old memory box. Doesn’t mean this can’t be good. Stop freaking out!’ her conscious ranted at her.
Okay, yeah this is what you’ve been looking for isn’t it? You needed a clue, what’s the worst that could happen? She looked of at the box again. Its antiquary screamed harmless, but even old and beautiful things can be monsters.
Steading herself she pulled it up to her bed placing it beside her, she wasn’t sure where to start, the old photos? The cards and letters? The average sized leather book? She couldn’t see, how a handful of pictures of people she…