Descriptive Essay On Jasper Jones

You step on the frigid, cracked stone floor. The sound of your foot echoes through the walls. You hear the paint cracking, the stone walls crumbling. Bellowed whistles of songbirds are coming from outside. You feel the old, rusted bars and the faded red paint. The paint crumbles off as you touch it with your frosted fingertips. You taste the cold, dry air that seems to draw the water out of your mouth, leaving it cold and dry. You stifle at the smell of the mildew and mold in the air. You see cockroaches scuttle across the raw, barren floor, feasting on the food left behind by the people. The people that stay there every day and every night. No one knows who they are or why they are there. Mice squeak and whistle as if they are speaking another language to you, warning you, but you can’t understand their cries.

Bitter, hard footsteps approach you. You can 't see who, or what, it is. You run faster and faster down the many corridors of the abandoned sanitarium until your brows sweat, chilling your face. Through the hallways, you turn left, then right. You are chilled down to the bone but still sweating. The footsteps are getting closer, louder, harder. Faded red paint covers every wall, bar, and door, chipped off, making pictures in the walls. You hear the footsteps, they get closer and closer. The footsteps are so close you can feel the echoing of the ground beneath your feet. You run until you can run no more. One of the winding, mazing corridors has lead you to a dead end. The footsteps get closer and closer until you can feel their breath on your neck. Then you smell it - ricotta, fresh mozzarella, basil, san marzano sauce. It was just the pizza man bringing you pizza. The sweet smell of the cheese blended with the savory san marzanos, and the freshness of the basil, it was a dream, not a nightmare, come