Write about 200 to 250 words on one of the following questions. Narrative Writing
(a) ‘The figure in the long, black coat.’ Use this as the title of a narrative.
OR
(b) Write a story that starts with the opening of a door to a room that you are not supposed to
enter.

please

The Figure in the Long, Black Coat :

I never really realized the figure was there. At least, at first. But now, as I lay peacefully on pristine white sheets that harshly contrasted against my tan skin and the tangy smell of disinfectant dancing merrily through the air, I realized that the figure had always been there. It had been a constant all throughout my life since I was a child. I just never really noticed.

I remember playing in a nearby playground as a young child. I remember the old, red swings that creaked every time someone sat on them. I used to go there with my friend Ernie to play till the sun had set and Mom would call us in for dinner. There was always a man wearing a long black coat sitting on a bench nearby eating cotton candy. Strawberry flavoured cotton candy, to be exact. He was lonely, I thought. Coming to the park everyday to see children play. That was the extent of it and sooner than later, I forgot about him.

There was also those times in the public library. I had been going through a bookworm phase then, reading through hundreds of books in order to distract myself from the fact that I had no friends. It worked, sometimes. Other times, my concentration would be broken when I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. I saw a woman with a long black coat, idly browsing through the romance novels section. Sometimes she would select a book and read the summary only to frown delicately at it and put it back. I suspected it was more due to the predictable and boring story line than the overly dramatized and unrealistic cover that almost without fail, would have gorgeous men with bulging muscles and flawless hair. At least, I would like to have hope so. I never paid much attention after that. Maybe she was lonely too.

Other times, I saw the figure at night. He was sitting on the bench opposite of my house and he gently placed what looked to be a sketchbook on his lap. He was always drawing. His hand would run across the page with slow but expressive strokes that seemed to caress the paper and I would be hypnotized, at least for that moment in time by this strange, lonely man, creating art. I would wonder sometimes what he could’ve been drawing, what piece of art took up so much of his concentration, so much of his effort, his care and his love. But after, I always seem to remember that going up and making small talk with a stranger that sketches outside of your house at night isn’t normal, and so I would close the curtains and sleep. I never gave him a second thought the day after.

But now, as I lay dying from this disease, I see the figure again. Only this time it’s Ernie. Ernie, with his sweet, soft smile and carefree heart now stood before me when in reality, he had died years ago. Car crash, they had said. Some drunk driver had crashed into them and Ernie was gone. Just like that. But that had been 40 years ago. Now, he stood before me in a long black coat and offered me his hand. Slowly, I took it and smiled.