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Showing results for tags 'disappointment'.
Found 3 results
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We'll never get a set better than this set,
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The sun shines through the four paneled window, its pale winter light bright on the bleak walls. A white fan hangs from the ceiling, blending in as it is unmoving above. Below the white trim, a dark pinkish rug runs under the rocking chair that is as lively as the fan. A hand crafted wooden dresser rests against the wall next to the door, while across the room lies an infant sleeping in its crib. All is noiseless as the child’s rest is preserved, the world outside the window and door seemingly disconnected from this room. The child itself lies under a white and blue stitched blanket, its wool enough to keep the child warm in the temperature-less room. Its fingers grasp tightly around the blanket, clutching it close; one thumb is firmly being sucked on while it curls up, retreating into itself. Under a head of thin hair, while its flushed face crinkles, its eyelids remain closed, its mind dreaming while the body adjusts to life outside the womb. Eyes still closed, it dreams on, until a yowl comes from somewhere deep in its young throat. Mouth opening in a half yawn, it emits a short, almost frightening cry. Awake now, the infant scoots itself over until it can grab the bars of the crib, and utters the sound again. Something is desired, and by doing this, the child knew it would be nurtured. It reached out with its voice now, seeking that sustenance. There it sat, mouth and eyes opening and closing, almost hopeful to see something in that painful bright blur that reached its pupils. But the cry was not being answered. As the child’s lament for its mother drawled on, it grew to where a gurgling sob echoed through the room. The babe eventually realized its mother was not coming, and it intensified its plea, as it wanted her, and no longer the nurture; simply her presence would be enough. What had it done, in its innocence, to deserve her ignorance? Grasping the bars tightly, it screamed through the crib, pleading for her arrival. The effort was in vain, however, as its fragile little form felt the despair. The cry carried on, a sad tune playing in the lonely room, looping on and on; all the babe wanted was some understanding, some comfort. As a hot tear escaped its eye, it did not question why the mother would not attend to it, as if it were excessively due to a fault in the child. It cried out of need, out of desperation. The cries echoing back into the infants ears finally overwhelmed it, and a powerful weary began to consume the child. Little fingers grew limp in the bars, the child crumpling upon its blanket, now only sniveling. And its snivels grew quiet, ignored just like its cries, as the newborn slipped into the darkness of the dreams it had awoken from.
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What was your least favorite set? I know everyone talks about their favorite, but what about those that didn't make the cut?-Bane
