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Alternate Ending -
“They walked slowly down the hall in the sound of cold rain. They turned through the doorway to the room in the sound of the storm and thunder, lightning on their faces, blue and terrible. They walked over to the closet door slowly and stood by it.
Behind the closet door was only silence.
They unlocked the door, even more slowly, and let Margot out.”
There was no movement in the closet. The door stood still, untouched. The children stood still where they were, not moving, nor daring to make any noise.
Lightning flashed. In the brief speck of light, streaks of a thick liquid were seen on the inside of the closet door. Thunder sounded, and the children jumped, eyes wide. They poked and prodded one another, none wanting to get too close to the closet door.
Lightning flashed again, and the children quickly peered inside.
In the corner, crumpled up into a little ball, was Margot.
The children edged closer, and closer. They crept into the room, slowly and timidly. Thunder crashed again, and a draft in the tunnel blew so heavily that the door slammed shut behind them.
The children cried out, and ran to the door, beating upon it, tears streaming down their faces, just as Margot had. They stopped, pausing as each child realized what had happened.
The door had slammed shut, by means of something they had no control over, and they had lain there and beat upon it, and cried, just as Margot had when they had locked her up.
The children turned to face their fallen classmate, who still lay in the corner, unmoving.
They edged closer and closer, drinking in her state the closer they came. Margot’s clothes hung off of her petite frame, crumpled and slick with a crimson liquid that the children had learned to fear long ago. Her hair was matted against her face, her arms hugging her knees to her chest.
But it was her eyes that terrified the children. Margot’s eyes, which were staring right at them, so large and devoid of emotion, emptier than anyone’s, of any age, should have been. There was no recognition in those eyes, no sadness. No anger, nor brutality. Just a startling emptiness.
One girl separated herself from the others, walking carefully towards Margot. She stood, only an arm’s length away from her, and waited for any movement. There was none.
She crouched down next to Margot, terror ringing in her ears. Nothing. She reached out and touched her hand to Margot’s shoulder, Margot’s lifeless eyes following her all the while.
Margot shuddered under the girl’s touch, and her face became stony.
Margot looked up suddenly, an expression of cool calmness settling on her face. Her gaze was directed at William.
She spoke softly, “You.”
William moved closer to her, straining to hear her words.
“It was you? Wasn’t it? That led them to lock me here?” There was no anger in her voice, only a morbid curiosity.
William swallowed.
Margot stood, slowly, stretching out her limbs. The children watched in horror as she wiped the blood from her hands on her pants, long and jagged cuts revealing themselves as the blood was wiped away.
“Why?” Margot’s voice remained steady, her face a mask of calm.
William didn’t answer. None of the children did. They just stared, stunned, slowly backing towards the door.
Margot walked ever closer, silent now, taking in the sight of each of her classmates, her cold, lifeless eyes seemingly devouring them.
The children stood huddled together, their backs pressed against the wall. William moved forward, words on his lips but nothing leaving his tongue.
But he never did get the chance to say anything.
At that moment, Margot collapsed against the floor, curling up into a tight ball. Her face twisted and contorted, her eyes closing as her lips curled in rage and then relaxed into a joyous, peaceful place. Her expression shifted back and forth, back and forth, as her body shook violently.
And then she was still.
The children walked forward stiffly, reaching her body. They looked down, terrified at what they might find.
And there was Margot, eyes wide open, her face contorted into a wicked smile.
Dead.
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Ray Bradbury has always been a sort of inspiration for me. It's an honor for me to get to take my own spin on one of his classic pieces - hopefully I do it justice :).
*NOTE: the first paragraph (the material in quotations) is the work of Mr. Ray Bradbury (the last part of his story "All Summer in a Day") and is used to set the mood - that piece belongs to him entirely I take no credit.*