The Catcher In The Rye Creative Writing

“No, my dear,” she said. “Only you.” The landlady contorted her face into an unnerving smile and glared at him with a machinate, machiavellian glint in her eyes. The ominous statement sent a shiver down Billy’s spine. Suppressing the urge to run in fright from the landlady, Billy instead politely sipped the bitter, metallic-tasting tea. He yawned as he was suddenly overtaken with the feeling of lethargy; Billy was dimly aware of the fact that it was impolite to fall asleep while in the midst of a conversation but he couldn’t control himself. The last thing he heard before he fell into a deep sleep was the cackling of the landlady. Billy awoke to the rotten smell of death. He quelled the urge to vomit and began to rub the sleep out of his

After he was packed Billy quietly tiptoed out his room and began his descent down the ramshackled stairs. He cringed every time the dilapidated, rickety steps creaked in distress, fretful that the slightest sound would alert the landlady to his escape. When he finally got to the bottom, he sighed in relief. Confident that he was in the clear Billy strode nonchalantly towards the exit, safety, and refuge from this accursed bed and breakfast was tantalizingly close. However, Billy’s phlegmatic demeanor was shattered when he carelessly tripped over the unmoving corpse of landlady’s dachshund. Billy fell to the ground with a sickening thud. Stars swam in front of Billy’s eyes; it felt as though someone had put his brain into a meat grinder and turned it into mush. He knotted his body into the fetal position and waited for the agonizing throbbing in his head to subside. Dazed, confused and disoriented, Billy staggered to his feet. He was met by the apoplectic gaze of the landlady. She was staring daggers at him. Her gaze, however, didn’t frighten him in the least, the baleful gun in her hand was what terrified him. It was an unremarkable looking revolver with a worn, nicked wooden grip and a dull yet formidable looking