alpacinou
Key Member
- Joined
- Sep 30, 2019
- Member Type
- Interested in Language
- Native Language
- Persian
- Home Country
- Iran
- Current Location
- Iran
Is this correct and natural?
Phillip had to drive back home one last time to gather his belongings. Home, he thought, looking at a faint scar on his left wrist, the mark of his failed suicide attempt three weeks before. He gripped the steering wheel tight as he turned into a steep downhill street. To his left, the city, wrapped in a pall of dust, stretched to the foot of low mountains on the eastern horizon. A faint sunlight bled through dark clouds, enveloping the mountains in a hazy orange glow.
He slowed down as he neared a junction and stopped behind a long line of cars stuck in the afternoon traffic. There was a narrow street that joined the wider one Philip was on. Cars from the narrower street were trying cram into the already congested main street. Philip sat motionless and listened to the horns blaring. His mind was completely still. Two drivers slid out of their cars and got into a verbal fight. They ranted and raved waving their hands angrily and and throwing out just about every racial and sexual insult there was but Philip was too withdrawn to pay attention to them.
The traffic started crawling forward and a few minutes later Philip arrived, parking in front of the building, their home. He dragged himself up the stairs. His heartbeat quickened as he entered the apartment. Grief, when he felt it, came in waves, sweeping him and then leaving him numb. He saw a picture of Patricia hanging on the wall and his stomach twisted. Philip sprawled on the wooden floor and broke into tears. A part of him was hoping she would still be alive, sleep in their bedroom. He crawled there. It was empty and quiet except for the patter of the rain.
Her death had left a gaping hole inside him that he knew eventually would eat him from inside out. He could delay his fall, but it would come. He stepped onto the balcony. A spring rain was hammering down now, lighting flashing among dark clouds. Big drops were falling almost diagonally in the howling wind. Philip gazed at them wash the dust-covered sky. He remembered the last time they sat together in the balcony and listened to rain. He chuckled but the images of a scrawny Patricia on the hospital bed, struggling to drink milk and vomiting flashed through his mind, turning his chuckle to a low cry.
"You will be fine when I come back," he said the last time he saw her, before leaving for his mission. Now his mind was forming a whole of picture what he wasn't there to see. Pats twitching in pain and dying alone.
It was as if the mess of dust and rain outside blended with the mess inside him. His stomach clenched again. "Goddamn you Patricia. You could've put up a fight but didn't," he yelled, his voice drowning out in the noises from the city.
Phillip had to drive back home one last time to gather his belongings. Home, he thought, looking at a faint scar on his left wrist, the mark of his failed suicide attempt three weeks before. He gripped the steering wheel tight as he turned into a steep downhill street. To his left, the city, wrapped in a pall of dust, stretched to the foot of low mountains on the eastern horizon. A faint sunlight bled through dark clouds, enveloping the mountains in a hazy orange glow.
He slowed down as he neared a junction and stopped behind a long line of cars stuck in the afternoon traffic. There was a narrow street that joined the wider one Philip was on. Cars from the narrower street were trying cram into the already congested main street. Philip sat motionless and listened to the horns blaring. His mind was completely still. Two drivers slid out of their cars and got into a verbal fight. They ranted and raved waving their hands angrily and and throwing out just about every racial and sexual insult there was but Philip was too withdrawn to pay attention to them.
The traffic started crawling forward and a few minutes later Philip arrived, parking in front of the building, their home. He dragged himself up the stairs. His heartbeat quickened as he entered the apartment. Grief, when he felt it, came in waves, sweeping him and then leaving him numb. He saw a picture of Patricia hanging on the wall and his stomach twisted. Philip sprawled on the wooden floor and broke into tears. A part of him was hoping she would still be alive, sleep in their bedroom. He crawled there. It was empty and quiet except for the patter of the rain.
Her death had left a gaping hole inside him that he knew eventually would eat him from inside out. He could delay his fall, but it would come. He stepped onto the balcony. A spring rain was hammering down now, lighting flashing among dark clouds. Big drops were falling almost diagonally in the howling wind. Philip gazed at them wash the dust-covered sky. He remembered the last time they sat together in the balcony and listened to rain. He chuckled but the images of a scrawny Patricia on the hospital bed, struggling to drink milk and vomiting flashed through his mind, turning his chuckle to a low cry.
"You will be fine when I come back," he said the last time he saw her, before leaving for his mission. Now his mind was forming a whole of picture what he wasn't there to see. Pats twitching in pain and dying alone.
It was as if the mess of dust and rain outside blended with the mess inside him. His stomach clenched again. "Goddamn you Patricia. You could've put up a fight but didn't," he yelled, his voice drowning out in the noises from the city.
