English language question 5

Memorisation of story

The room reeked of decay, the air thick…

The room reeked of decay, the air thick with mildew and despair. Shards of broken glass littered the wooden floor, glinting like jagged teeth in the faint moonlight filtering through a cracked window. The walls, once vibrant with life, now sagged under the weight of neglect; a single bulb dangled from the ceiling, swaying gently—a pendulum marking the passage of time. Shadows sprawled across the room like dark hands, clawing for something they could never grasp.

Alone.

Alone.

He stood in the center of it all, a ghost of the man he once was. His gaunt frame trembled, shoulders hunched as though bearing the weight of an unbearable burden. Deep lines carved into his face—a topography of anguish and remorse—told the story of years spent drowning in grief. His hollow, sunken eyes shimmered with a warped blend of sorrow and wrath. Clutched in his quivering hand: the revolver. An artifact of vengeance, it gleamed with sinister promise. His chest rose and fell, each breath ragged, as if the very air resisted his presence.

Why? Why had he come …..

Why? Why had he come back? The question pierced his thoughts relentlessly, like an incessant drumbeat. Memories surged—vivid, merciless. Her tiny hands reached toward him; her laughter, a melody lost to time, echoed in his ears. His wife’s serene eyes—eyes that once sparkled with trust—dimmed forever in his mind. Blood. It stained his thoughts, seeping into every crevice of his conscience. His hands—trembling, cursed hands—felt perpetually slick with guilt. No matter how often he wiped them clean, the stain remained.

"Do you remember…

"Do you remember them?" His voice shattered the silence. The man seated before him, in a decrepit armchair, offered no response. Cold, callous eyes met his: devoid of remorse, devoid of humanity. He stepped closer, revolver trembling in his grip. "They were innocent."

Bang!

Bang!

The shot rang out like a gavel striking final judgment. Crimson cascaded from the man’s chest, pooling beneath him—a grotesque tapestry unfurling across the floor. The revolver slipped from his grasp, clattering to the ground with a jarring finality. His heartbeat thundered, breath shallow, as he stared at his blood-streaked hands. Hands that had crossed a line he could never uncross.

Silence.

He stood motionless…

He stood motionless, gaze locked on the lifeless form. Was this justice? Or murder? The line dissolved into ambiguity, morality twisted beyond recognition. Slowly, he wiped his stained hands on his shirt—a futile gesture. Guilt clung to him, inescapable. The bulb flickered, casting erratic shadows that slithered across the walls like sinister phantoms. As he turned to leave, he paused at the doorway—a threshold between past and present. The moonlight, once faint, poured through the cracked window, illuminating the room with indifferent pallor. Blood glistened in the light: a macabre reminder of his irreversible choice.

Unclean.

Unclean.

Outside, the night enveloped him, a dark shroud that consumed him entirely, leaving no trace behind. The air carried a chill, laced with the scent of blood and regret. His hands—ghostly pale under the moon’s relentless gaze—trembled as he stuffed them into his pockets, as though hiding them would absolve him of sin. But deep down, he understood: no act could ever wash away the stain of his sins.