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RE: Story I wrote - the dark side - 10-02-2012
as Promised Smokemelvin.
be warned this is a BIG chapter, it will take you some time to read it.
*****************************************************************************
The Death of Kindness.
The Pain and Heat were excruciating, the woman could feel
hundreds of razor sharp, white hot points pierce into her back at immense
velocity, blood pouring down her back and the exposed arms sticking out from
the ruined sleeves of the white habit, mottled with Thick dark red Blood. The
Woman could see the dark, black, muddy ground below, churned up by the shockwave
of hot air and thickened by the pounding rain, the ground came up to meet her
as she reached the parabolica of her trajectory and gravity began to reassert
itself over updraft and momentum, the woman landed hard in the mud, she could
feel the air being forced from her lungs like collapsing bellows, and the
silver cross being ripped from around her neck by the thick glutinous mud that enveloped
her. She lay there, winded, and in trauma, through the roaring in her ears caused by the massive explosion that had catapulted her into the air like a ragdoll, she could still hear them,
Father Padraig yelling for a stop to the madness on the consecrated ground,
calling for mercy, before his cry’s had been forever cut silent by a horrible
gargling scream as the white hot lead ripped into him from the roaring machine
guns, of the children and her sister nuns screaming before they themselves were silenced by the skinny young devils in rags who cut them apart with machine guns, yelling excitedly in Swahili for
more ammo, screaming glory, sent into an ecstasy by the pounding of the wooden
stocks of there Ak-47’s against their thin, bony arms as they committed atrocities
within god's house. Why…oh god…why!
The woman could hear the gruesome sucking sound of boots in
the mud, she tried to look up, struggling to see as her blue eyes filled with
the thick blood that poured into them from a laceration on her forehead,
turning her small, round, and rather plain, face into a crimson mask, the boots
stopped in front of her, small, Black, the feet of a boy of about 12…no.. a
Demon in a boy’s body, the boots were old and worn, the front scuffed beyond
recognition and the stitching frayed, the soles held on with tape, the laces
cut short by a razor edged knife, a boy, unable to read or write, unable to do
anything a child of his age In the west could do, but more than capable of
using an Ak47, of killing, and feeling nothing. No mercy, no remorse. A child
of the devil, so like so many of his kind in this part of Africa. The legs
sticking out the top of the boots were thin, little more than a slight covering
of black skin over bone, raised in red weal’s due to disease and grey with
malnutrition, the boy wore no trousers, just a torn, blood-stained pair of
brown shorts, held onto the pelvis with rope, the fastening button long broken,
the body above was thin, emaciated the ribs poking out of the skin like a cage
holding up the grey flesh, the thin arms held an AK-47 in the ravaged, diseased
hands, the head was huge, disproportionate, barely supported by the almost wire
like neck, his face was a horror to see, no hair, bald, half the face twisted
and scarred by burn tissue, a tissue she had seen before here in Africa, the
result of a flamethrower, the eyes glaring in hated and fury, the wide nose
flared with anger and the mouth contorted in a grimace. The Nun knew that only
death awaited her now, to release her to the kingdom of god, such violence,
such hatred that young boys could enter a missionary, kill the nuns and there priest
and massacre the children in there protection, all for being from a tribe those
boys saw as inferior, how could god allow such goings on to happen?, why did he
allow such things to happen?, her broken brow narrowed under the shock of
unkempt strawberry blonde hair, exposed by the blast which had ripped away the
hood of her habit, why did this happen?
The boy looked down at her, another filthy white ghost, here
to help the Lemomba scum, the nothings, he was Mamosi and proud, a warrior,
born to kill, the Lemomba just sat around or farmed, wasting the resources of
the country, resources given by almighty god to the warriors of the Mamosi, the
Lemomba were a cancer, a scourge, to be wiped out, so had spoken the great
leader Patrick Kouassi, chief warrior of the Mamosi, the left sword of god. Yet
these white ghosts dared to come and take away the Lemomba from there stinking
farms, allowing them to continue to rape the resources given to the Mamosi, and
they Dared to use the name of god, all deserved to die, like the Lemomba
Animals they colluded with, only one of the whites saw the truth, the man known
only to them as “wolf”, the white man with the cigar who supplied many
guns, he knew the bravery of the Mamosi warriors, and the inferiority of the
Lemomba, who, no matter how many AK’s they got their own filthy subhuman hands
on, and no matter how hard they fought amongst the burning towns and farms,
would all be annihilated, as demanded by Kouassi, as demanded by God! He called in Swahili “a survivor! One of the white ghosts who rape our country, a woman!”
Another boy came over, older, about 14, as skinny as his friend, but taller, still with the same raised weal’s on his skin and the greyness of disease, the Nun had seen it, all the Mamosi
were Diseased, as were the children of the Lemomba they took in, many of her
sisters had fallen sick, vomiting, nausea, no appetite, the skin going grey and
blistering leaving raised weal’s, fever, sickness.. what was wrong with this
country, what was the illness that inflicted Mamosi and Lemomba alike? The boy
wore a tatty red vest and broken shorts, he had hair, short and curly, and an
angry face, the nose bisected by a diagonal machete slash. He saw the woman,
and smiled a truly evil smile, that of Satan himself, the younger boy pulled
back the bolt on his AK and aimed at the Nuns head, the older boy pushed him to
one side, the gun gave a staccato of fierce cracks and the bullets riddled into
the mud, the boy admonished his young partner “Later Donkey! Kill the white
bitch later, I want some fun first, the only kind of fun you can have with a
woman!” the older boy undid the string holding up his short, revealing his
erect penis, he threw his AK-47 into the mud, straddled the Nun, grinning
evilly, ripped up her habit, tore down her underware, and forced himself on
her, the woman Screaming in fear and Rage.
Sister Katherine Anne Ferrocks, a devotee of god, a virgin,
given to her lord, helping the needy and the sick as a member of The Little
Sisters of Pity, the greatest of all Catholic Nursing orders, an expert in
nutrition, and an MA in politics, unsurprising considering her family’s
connection to the British Political System, remembered back as the boy thrust
himself into her, her unable to resist as she looked into the dark mouth of the
younger boys AK, its bullet nestling in the black cave, ready to blow her brains
onto the mud if she so much as tried to get the older boy off, the younger boy's
face watching in fascination and excitement, wondering how she came to be here,
face down in the mud of East Memgosa, Africa, 20 miles East of Somalia, her
back full of shrapnel and being raped by the evil that cursed this region of
the world, as the mission she had served burned behind her, turning the
dismembered corpses of her Priest and her sisters and the children, lying in
bubbling pools of their own blood, into ash.
East Memgosa, a Small country of around 200 square miles of
savannah, 20 miles east of Somalia, its government had broken down a year ago,
its president found lying across his desk, blood pouring from his stump like
neck, his head on the floor, its features locked forever into a stare of
horror, severed by a clean backstroke with a Machete, the government minsters,
still in there robes, the red fabric turned to black with the blood pouring
from the holes in them, riddled with M16 rounds, massacred were they fell while
trying to run from the council chambers. The 2 main tribes, the Mamosi and the
Lemomba soon made things worse, the Mamosi, war like and primitive had attacked
with flamethrowers, machine guns, mortars, they had burned farms, killed anyone
who wasn’t Mamosi, destroyed towns, one tribe, the Omenga, had been completely
wiped out, the leader of the Mamosi, Patrick Kouassi, would settle for nothing
less than total Mamosi control of East Memgosa, and was not above Genocide to achieve
it, it was rumoured in the western press that Kouassi himself was behind the
massacre of the Memgosa Government, and it had been he himself who had Severed
the Head of President Henry Temgoso, the Lemomba had tried to fight back, and
protect the other tribes from the Mamosi, and had been attacked, driven to the
verge of extinction.
And all the West did was Talk, and gave out sanctions,
that didn’t work, somehow, the sanctions had been breached, and a large supply
of Eastern Block Military hardware had been given to the warring factions, the
Mamosi under Patrick Kouassi and the Lemomba under there Chief, Prudence
Kelombi, the supplies were of equal size and content, as if someone was trying
to extend the length of the civil war, The United Nations believed the Embargo
had been broken by a mysterious arms Dealer known only as “wolf”, believed to
be British in origin, but, with no reliable sightings to confirm that fact, or
what he even looked like.
The UN itself was doing nothing, they had been told to avoid
combat, and only fire if fired upon, after one of its patrols, an American
group from Delta had been hit by white Phosphorous Mortars in the town of
Katamemto. Leaving them nothing but a pile of charred skeletons amidst burning
buildings and the screams of dying civilians under a charnel red sky. Mortars
fired by the Mamosi to destroy the town, a safe area for the Lemomba until that
evil day.
There was even greater evil, a virus was sweeping the
country like a brushfire, people were getting a fever, the skin went grey, it blistered
and burst into weal’s, the appetite destroyed, nausea, vomiting, intense heat, pain,
and then the worst, the brain chemicals broke down into their composite enzymes
and acids, resulting in violent insanity, then death in screaming, writhing
agony as the internal organs combusted with heat. Rumours flew around the
press, the UN and the World Health Organisation that the virus was a
Virological Weapon, a Weapon of Mass Death, one that indiscriminately targeted
UN, Mamosi and Lemomba alike.
And all the UN did was talk and give embargos, and sent aid
money that ended up being used to buy more of “wolf’s” guns, prolonging the
death and carnage, this Stuck in Sister Katherine’s Gullet more than anything,
as one of the people talking of “peaceful embargos” was Michael Andrew
Ferrocks, new leader of the Conservative Party, the British Prime Minister, and
her Brother!.
The leader of the London Branch of the Little Sisters of
Pity, Mother Superior Mary Janet Osumpta, a Pleasant, fat, 50 year old from
Belfast, who had sustained her faith through even the darkest days of Britain’s
Struggle with the IRA, had been horrified at the fate of the Lemomba, and after
the Pope had given prayers for hope to reach the Lemomba and the guiding’s of the lord and Saviour Jesus Christ to be given to the Mamosi, had decided to set up a Mission in Memgosa, Staffed by her
Finest nuns and lead by her Closest Friend, and her Confessor, Father Padraig Ryan,
a 60 year old man, with a calm handsome face and silky white hair, tall and
thin with a deep, kind voice, from the Falls Road In Belfast like Sister
Osumpta Herself. Her idea was to help the lemomba, to feed them, to console them, to help them get Visas to become war Refugees to the west. To get victims of the plaque tested, to see if it was
natural or if the rumours were true, that the most evil of all mankinds tools
of war was being used, viralogical weapons of mass destruction.
As a Nutriotionist, Sister Katherine Ferrocks had been a natural choice for this
mission of mercy, despite her brothers insistence she must not go, with him
even threatening to have The Little Sisters of Pity classed as an illegal organisation,
until he was forced to desist due to angry reactions from the British Catholic
church. He had been born an Aetheist, to a Rich Aetheist Family with strong ties
to the Conservative Party, there own father an MP and there Grandfather one
before him, and He had never seen why his sister had become interested in
religion, something he saw as a hang on from the past, that should be made
illegal in all its forms, and had devoted herself to some non existant fantasy,
and had become even more angry when her catholic belief had threatened his
Political career, he had refused to speak to his sister for Months, there
parents had Already Disowned her for her choice and faith. And yet, on that
rainy day when the nuns had boarded the Boeing 747 to Cape town at Heathrow, he
had come, and he had waved goodbye, sadly, solemnly, it occurred to Katherine
that he “knew”, that he was somehow aware, by some instinct, that she was going
to die in East Memgosa.
She herself had got bad feelings, at cape town, when they transferred
to a rusting Douglass Turbo Prop, an old US Army C63 Skytrain from the second
world war, piloted by an odd looking young man with a limp, his leg lost to a
bullet, one eye missing and covered by a black patch,. The flight went with
little issue, but, when they got to the airport, that’s when things went bad,
the building had been destroyed, a burned out shell, and the runway was
potholed and scarred, filled with the blackened twisted wrecks of mortared
planes, the paths covered in rotting machine gunned corpses, angry looking
young men pacing around in rags carrying what Father Padraig described as “Ak-47’s
I saw enough of those bloody things in Belfast, I prayed to never see one again”.
It was then Sister Katherine realised God had Abandoned this mission, and that
she may never see England again.
A feeling redoubled 3 days later, they had been on a rusting bus, an old American Camion Elementary A school bus from the 1980’s and had been bouncing down a mud track as the heavens drenched the
Savannah in pouring rain, they saw smoke, fire from a burning farm, a naked young
woman, no more than 20 years old, running out of the fields, there was a repeated cracking
staccato, AK fire, the woman’s chest had burst open in a fountain of blood as
she flopped forwards, her brown eyes rolled up in death, 2 naked men ran out of
the field as the bus started to slow down, they raised there AK’s and fired,
the nuns ducked as the windows burst open in the fusillade of bullets, the
driver had floored the accelerator, the big diesel straight 8 in the nose of the bus giving
a deep roar and thumping out clouds of black smoke from the long holed exhaust,
as it raced away, bullets thumping into the rear.
The Catholic Mission was from 1895, it was small, in a small courtyard with a rotten wooden cross, surrounded by collapsing stone walls, the rusted iron gates lying down on the ground, long fallen from there mounts, the small church building decrepit and without windows, just boards, the slate roof
caving in and patched up with rusty corrugated iron. As they got out of the bus, one of the nuns, a
pretty 30 year old brunette called Alice Robertson had started to shake
violently, her skin practically changing colour before their eyes as she
vomited violently, the virus, it stuck Katherine as ironic, Alice had been the Virologist,
and she'd been the first one to be struck down.
The Nuns had done there best, the lemomba came in droves,
arriving on carts, piled into rusty cars, on the back of dilapidated pick up
trucks, anyway they could arrive, all were sick with the virus, many were
missing limbs and had horrific injuries and burns from the combat, many were
children, The Nuns had all cried at first, but they had become hardened to the
horror as the tidal wave of injured and ill Lemomba had flooded into the
mission day after day, many of the nuns falling sick to the virus, making the
work even harder
Then today, at dawn, there had been the sound of many
engines, diesel pick ups with browning machine gun turrets had entered the
courtyard, a nun went out to see what was wrong, the browning had roared, and
the nun fell, missing her left arm, and right leg, half her face carried away
by a bullet, the nuns had moved a wardrobe against the door, machine guns
rattled, the boards were prised away and Molotov cocktails thrown in, burning
the sick nuns, their screams of agony echoing around the missions stone halls,
there was the thunder of a diesel engine and the doors had exploded open as a
rusty red Toyota pick up truck had burst through, its front crumpling and the
radiator bursting, the man on the gun firing again and again, laughing
psychotically, Mamosi had poured in with machine guns, killing everyone they
saw, women, nuns, children, Katherine, more scared than ever before in her 32
years of life had hidden in a wardrobe, when the shooting stopped, she peered
out, there were bodies eveywere, riddled with bullets, the young men were placing
black satchels on the walls, she knew what was going on, Father Padraig had
told her of the time when the orange Loyalists had blown up his church because he’d
given sanctuary to IRA members, the black satchels were Bombs, the boys placed
them and ran, Sister Katherine Screamed, hitched up her habit and Ran for her
life, her white shoes thundering off the stone floor, she ran out the door, and
the world had disintegrated, there was a blinding flash and a deafening bang
behind her, a wall of heat hit her back and she was thrown into the air like a
dogs ball.
The Pain and Heat were excruciating, the woman could feel
hundreds of razor sharp, white hot points pierce into her back at immense
velocity, blood pouring down her back and the exposed arms sticking out from
the ruined sleeves of the white habit, mottled with Thick dark red Blood. The
Woman could see the dark, black, muddy ground below, churned up by the shockwave
of hot air and thickened by the pounding rain, the ground came up to meet her
as she reached the parabolica of her trajectory and gravity began to reassert
itself over updraft and momentum, the woman landed hard in the mud, she could
feel the air being forced from her lungs like collapsing bellows, and the
silver cross being ripped from around her neck by the thick glutinous mud that
enveloped her. She lay there, winded, and in trauma, through the roaring in her ears caused by the massive explosion that had catapulted her into the air like a ragdoll, she could still hear them,
Father Padraig yelling for a stop to the madness on the consecrated ground,
calling for mercy, before his cry’s had been forever cut silent by a horrible
gargling scream as the white hot lead ripped into him from the roaring machine
guns, of the children and her sister nuns screaming before they themselves were silenced by the skinny young devils in rags who cut them apart with machine guns, yelling excitedly in Swahili for
more ammo, screaming glory, sent into an ecstasy by the pounding of the wooden
stocks of there Ak-47’s against their thin, bony arms as they committed atrocities
within gods house. Why…oh god…why!
The Boy Groaned and withdrew, picking up his ak, he stood
next to his friend and he worked the bolt, “you dead white bitch” he said in
broken English, obviously a saying he had heard on some American gangsta rap
album, Time seemed to slow for Katherine, the boys faded away, a tall man stood
before her, in brown sandals and with a flowing white robe, he had a long black
beard and long black hair, and a kind, Isreali, face, he spoke to her in Hebrew, a language
she'd never heard before or spoken herself, but she understood perfectly “come
with me my child”.
The Ak47’s fired in unison, the nuns head exploding from the
impact of the steel 7.65 MM rounds, her body squirming as the rounds thudded
into it, the boys laughing and whooping, they had done, no survivors.
There was the sound of tires In the mud, and the pounding of
a v8 engine, the boys turned round as a black HMMWV pulled into the courtyard,
followed by an old Mercedes Benz 6 wheel Flatbed lorry with a Tonnau, the door of the
HMMWV opened and a man stepped out. He was small, about 5 foot 5 at the most,
and had silver hair, and fierce blue eyes, he had a beard, he wore an old brown
flying jacket and white slacks with a brown belt and black army boots, in his
left hand he carried a Desert Eagle handgun in gunmetal gray, a MKXIX loaded
with fifty calibre action express, on the back of his jacket was the graphic of
a wolf with blood round its mouth and glaring eyes, the man spoke with a
clipped public school voice, with a slight Westminster Accent, “you have done
well boys, more of the Lemomba scum sent to hell, don’t you think they have
done well Patrick?”
The passenger door of the HMMWV opened and a white loafer
landed on the mud, white trousers above, another leg swung out and black cane
was placed into the mud, a huge fat body in a white linen suit, covered in gold
braid like spilled scrambled egg propelled out, a white beard and hair, and an
angry face under a white panama hat. The boys were amazed, Kouassi Himself had
come, they dropped to there knees and offered the tribal greeting, Kouassi
Smiled, and spoke in a deep, heavilly accented voice, "you will be rewarded for your great victory my boys”,. He pulled out a Nickel Plated Smith and Wesson revolver, chambered for .357 Magnum,.. ”wont they?” The wolf raised his right hand and placed his left under the desert eagle, he smiled, the boys looked at there
dropped AK's, panicking. The Desert Eagle Fired Twice, its distinctive iron clap
echoing in the air, the boys dropped, the younger boy fell forward, his burned
head rolling backwards off its shoulders, the face caved in by the round, the
older boy, still without his shorts fell sideward, a look of pain and shock on
his evil face, his chest ripped open, the lungs falling to the floor in a spray
of blood and bone, the boys near the Toyota pick up trucks span round, alerted
by the roar of the desert eagle, raising there Ak47's, the back of the Mercedes truck
burst open, white men in black fatigues leapt out, there elbows marked with US
army insignias, their faces obscured by balaclavas, all carrying FN M249 SAW machine
guns, each with a 200 round belt magazine of 7.62 Nato, they opened fire with
the SAW’s. the guns rattling away, the boys tried to run, but were cut down,
spiralling to the floor as the bullets ripped them apart, the Toyota trucks
fireballing as the bullets hit the fuel tanks. The guns stopped, all the Mamosi
Warriors lay dead. The 5 soldiers lay down the M249's and returned to the truck.
There was silence, only the hissing as the rain landed on the blazing ruins of
the mission and the burning trucks, there was another engine, a black car, an
old Austin Montego estate, rusted with age, pulled in, 2 huge men got out of
the front, and dragged out 5 young men, Lemomba, in tattered American Combat
gear, they were thrown to the ground, next to the M249 machine guns.
The Wolf Reached into the HMMWV and passed an Ak47 with fore-stock, Reflex Site and 70
round drum magazine to Kouassi, who cocked it, looking with relish at the
bulbous, holed Recoil Compensator attatched to the barrel, he walked in front
of the men, they looked in horror at Kouassi, Kouassi Smiled and Pulled the Ak’s
trigger, the gun roared into life on full automatic, Kouassi spraying left and
right, the men falling, ripped to pieces by the bullets, blood flying… the AK
clicked empty, Kouassi limped back to the HMMWV and passed the AK to the Wolf,
clambering into the passanger seat, Wolf threw the gun onto the Rear Bench
and clambered into the drivers seat, shutting the door, and starting the v8
engine, he looked at Kouassi “that should prolong our little civil war.”
“I don’t care Martin, all I want is the country, and my
share of the diamonds!!”
“Don’t worry Kouassi, you’ll get your cut.;..” under his
breath Martin Wolfe added “from ear to ear with a machete, you’re getting fuck
all sunshine!”
Martin put the HMMWV into gear and drove off, the Austin and
the Mercedes following along the muddy track, leaving the rain to fall into the
silent courtyard, over the dead nuns and priest, over the dead children, over
the dead Mamosi, and over the corpse of Sister Katherine Anne Ferroks. No one
aware of the brutal chain of events her vicious rape and death had set into
motion, events that would set the world Ablaze…..
********************************************************************************
you are all free to critique.
Hopefully that will help you with sentance structure and description Smokemelvin.
RE: Story I wrote - the dark side - 10-02-2012
! please, i would like a more in depth review, i would like to know were i went wrong, it seems i've lost my touch over the years! from a penquin young writers award to, well, drekk, i need to know were i've gone wrong so i can get my old touch back!
RE: Story I wrote - Melvin - 10-02-2012
It seems this thread is becoming a story writing thread, I like it
RE: Story I wrote - Froge - 10-02-2012
Why is it in Amnesia?
RE: Story I wrote - Kman - 10-02-2012
http://www.creepypasta.com/dear-abby/ I posted this one here a loooong time ago, only recently got published on Creepypasta though (where people actually have the attention span to read something that's longer than 2 paragraphs, unlike on /r/nosleep). It's actually almost in the top 10 highest rated pastas of all time now (with it being at a 9.2 and the 10th highest being at 9.3), woo \o/.
RE: Story I wrote - Froge - 10-03-2012
(10-02-2012, 11:58 PM)Kman Wrote: http://www.creepypasta.com/dear-abby/ I posted this one here a loooong time ago, only recently got published on Creepypasta though (where people actually have the attention span to read something that's longer than 2 paragraphs, unlike on /r/nosleep). It's actually almost in the top 10 highest rated pastas of all time now (with it being at a 9.2 and the 10th highest being at 9.3), woo \o/.Cool pasta, but I wasn't particularly horrified by it. The guy is mostly just nuts, and it's almost funny that he was writing a
Spoiler below!
RE: Story I wrote - Adny - 10-03-2012
My eyes shot open - the world around me slowly came into focus. The air was thin and dusty, making it much harder to catch my breath and maintain consciousness. I took a quick glance around the room, but it was too difficult to see further than a few feet away due to the darkness that enshrouded me. I tried to move, but my extremities were bound, making any attempt to move from where I lay an impossibility.
I heard distant murmurs, slowly growing louder... closer. There were two distinct voices. I heard a small metal jingling as their voices went silent. The metallic clanging sounded like keys. The door on the other side of the room suddenly burst open, flooding my newfound habitat with an intense, heavenly light. I was temporarily blinded - my eyes weren't able to adjust to such a radical change. I could see 2 hazy figures standing in the doorway, looking down on me.
My eyes snapped shut, feigning unconsciousness. The figure on the right blurted out in a harsh, joking voice: "Aww, he's asleep. Perhaps we should wake him up?" I cracked my eyes open - still trying to adhere to my charade. Now being accustomed to the light, I gazed in horror as the hulking figure on the left nodded, inching closer and closer to me. Step by step. My heart was pounding in my chest. "Wake...Up!" The brute synchronized the last syllable of his grunt with a swift kick to my throat.
My body jolted as I received the kick. My limbs began to spasm uncontrollably. Everything went black. I couldn't move at all; I couldn't even gather the strength to open my eyes for a glance at the culprit. But I could hear. "You idiot! Do you have any idea what he's going to do when he realizes that you accidentally killed one of his test subjects?" He let out a long, drawn-out sigh as he came to terms with the severity of the situation. "Okay...if we want to live, you'll have to get rid of this body." Could I truly pass for being a cadaver? I struggled to move even the tiniest muscle to relay that I was still among the realm of the living; my efforts must have been in vain. Then...
Spoiler below!
RE: Story I wrote - Froge - 10-03-2012
summed up the average custom story pretty well
RE: Story I wrote - Zaffre - 10-03-2012
(10-02-2012, 07:26 PM)the dark side Wrote: [post]tl;dr
Jokes aside, I agree with a previous post. The grammar wasn't that great, and it seemed overdramatic. If you were to do things less monotone and with more describing words it may be better. For instance, take a look at this sentence.
I gasped and sat up.
Adding a few verbs and adjectives in there can really help.
As I slowly regained consciousness, I became aware of the frigid air surrounding my body. Something was wrong. My fuzzy mind struggled to form clear thoughts but I soon realized that I was not at home anymore. My eyes shot open and I pulled myself up, absorbing my surroundings.
See how much better and more descriptive that part was? It gives you more of a sense of setting and how they feel. In the first sentence, the narrator can feel scared or surprised. Now in the second sentence you know they're scared or surprised, and not just remembering something in their imagination.