Creative Writing: Hulga's Home

As Manley Pointer slammed the barn door shut behind him, the ladder to the loft collapsed to the floor. Hulga did all she could—scream. Minutes passed. Hours dragged on as Hulga continued crying for help. Deeming her efforts futile, Hulga wept. As the sun set beyond the horizon, Hulga’s eyes dried up. With no glasses and no rays of sun seeping in through the cracks in the roof, Hulga felt around blindly, gathering a small bundle of hay upon which to lay her head. “Mama and Mrs. Freeman will surely notice I’m gone. Well, I bet I’ll be home by lunchtime tomorrow,” she whispered to herself, truly believing the words spilling out of her mouth. Closing her eyes, she tried to drift into sleep, but her doubtful thoughts occupied her attention. “What if they think I ran away? What if

“This is the end,” she stated. She didn’t cry or stutter or tremor or even flinch. She was neither happy nor sad about it. She just accepted it. For years she had thought of her death moment, but as it neared, she realized it would be nowhere near as glorious or as wonderful as she had imagined.
Another day passed as the light slowly faded from Hulga’s eyes. Dehydrated, starving, and delirious, Hulga began to see her dead family members approaching her.
First, her grandmother’s hand reached out towards her weak body. Then her grandfather waltzed to her side. Even Aunt Betty and Cousin Jax appeared to her. “Come with us, Hulga,” her family proposed warmly. “You can have a brand new leg. Just come with us. You’ll like it here.”
“Ain’t no way I’m going to Heaven. Ain’t no way I was good enough for that,” she whispered, gasping for air.
“The Lord knows you were dealt a bad hand in life, Hulga. Just come with us, Hulga. Please,” her grandmother’s hand was now only inches from her own.
Weakly grabbing the outstretched hand, the girl managed to utter her last words, “Call me