Harry’s Birthday

Birthday_candles

I wake early and with a sense of excitement, my blood singing in my ears.

What, what day is it? I can’t find myself. Is it Christmas? The first day of the holidays? My birthday?

I feverishly run through a list of dates in my head, searching for the puzzle piece.

Valentines Day, Thanksgiving, New Years Eve…

Then I remember, and my excitement fades away to nothing.

Today is Harry’s birthday.

Memories float to the surface of my mind. This day, repeated back through my life; of cake and candles, of parties and presents. Of his choppy blonde hair, of his obsession with tractors. His swing set in the garden. The love I saw in his eyes when he looked at me.

Of him, toddling around the house, creating wonderful chaos. Without him everything is so cold and echoing.

When will this pain heal? When will this hurt fade? Not yet – it’s still too fresh a wound.

But, one year, I want to be able to wake up on this day and only see the loveliest of lives… and not the hole he left behind.

Advertisements

Sleeping Beauty

She looks beautiful.

Her lips are small, heart shaped and a soft pink colour that reminds me of my grandmothers’ roses. She’s smiling slightly, as though she’s having happy dreams. Her eyes are closed, her dark lashes standing out against porcelain white skin. A faint blush rests on her sharply defined cheekbones.

She is beautiful.

She looks like she’s asleep, as though any moment, she could wake up and smile, and we could talk together again. But she doesn’t wake. She’ll never wake. This is no ordinary slumber.

Everyday I’ve been to see her. Everyday she’s been trapped in this cursed sleep. I’ve sat and watched as her skin has turned as white as a ghost and her cheek have hollowed. She’s lost so much of her vitality that she’s barely recognisable as herself. And today is the last day. The last visit.

Behind me, the door opens with a familiar swish. I turn. A young man, the Doctor, is guiding her parents into the room. Her mother has snail trails of tears shimmering on her cheeks but she looks remarkably controlled. Her father’s fingers are shaking like a miniature earthquake and he keeps swallowing, his large Adams apple bobbing curtsies. In his eyes I see the pain I feel reflected back at me. He’s trying not to cry. My heart goes out to them both. Losing a girlfriend is one thing, but losing your only daughter…

“I’ll give you some time to say goodbye,” the Doctor says gently, then steps back to give us some space.

Her mother reaches out and squeezes her daughters’ hand. She tries to smile but her mouth won’t obey. Weariness is evident in her face, her hunched back, the exhausted way she holds herself. She looks old. Bending down, she kisses her daughter on the forehead, as delicately as a butterfly.

“I love you, my sleeping beauty,” she whispers brokenly. Then she straightens and moves away for her husband.

He gazes down at his beautiful daughter, his face drowning in sorrow. Sitting down on the hospital bed, he puts a hand on her shoulder. Trying to speak, the words refuse to come. Swallowing, he says gruffly, “Goodbye, kiddo.”

Then he loses control and the tears torrent out of him, spilling down his cheeks. He lets them come. His shoulders shake but he stays deathly silent. I shiver – there’s nothing more terrifying than seeing a grown man cry. His wife puts an arm around his shoulders.

“Come on,” she says coaxingly. He is carefully led out the room. The Doctor follows and I watch them talking. After a moment, they seem to reach a decision and the Doctor comes back inside.

“Her parents didn’t want to watch. Do you want to stay?” I nod, not trusting myself to speak. I expected him to chuck me out. A rush of gratitude floods through me and for a moment my legs feel so weak I can barely stand.

I look down at her. I know that everyone has dismissed her as dead, but I’ve never let myself believe that. Every day I’ve come and I’ve waited for her to wake up. But today, they’re turning off the life support. It seems too soon, far too soon, and I suddenly realise that I never said goodbye.

Leaning down, I kiss her on the lips, careful not to disturb her. She smells of memories, of hot summer days and laughter: a reckless kind of happiness. She smells of her own sweet perfume. She smells of home.

My throat tightens and my eyes are burning like they’re full of acid. Her face is beginning to blur, swimming dizzily before me. But through the veil of water obscuring my vision, I could have sworn that I saw…

“Stop!” I shout. The Doctor jumps and turns around. His finger is hovering over the power button. “Don’t, I just saw her move!”

He looks at me pityingly. “I’m sorry, but she’s suffering grade six brain damage. There’s no way she could move, it’s imposs-“

He breaks off with a strangled gasp, pointing a wavering finger at her sleeping body.

“She did move!” He said disbelievingly.

“Quick, get her parents!” I order.

The Doctor runs so fast that he trips over an oxygen tank.

I look down at her, waiting, breathless.

Her eyes move slightly under her eyelids. Her mouth opens, just a fraction. Then her fingers twitch and her breathing quickens, her chest rising and falling the ebb and flow of the tide. I cling to her bed so tightly my knuckles turn snow-white.

Her mouth opens fully, she shakes her head, her hands clutch the bed sheet…

…And she opens her eyes.

Nothing could have prepared me for this. Everyone thought she was dead, that her brain had turned into baby food, that she would never be conscious again. But her eyes shine like stars and she pushes herself up into a sitting position. She’s not just awake, she’s alive. I’d forgotten how beautiful her eyes were. A slice of sky must’ve fallen and been caught between her dark lashes.

“Kyle,” She murmurs, and reached out her arms to me. I hug her fiercely, promising myself that no matter what happens, I’ll never let go of her again.

“We thought you were dead!” I whisper, emotion breaking my voice in half.

The door swishes open and her parents gasp loudly. “You’re awake!” Her father cries. They run to her bedside and promptly begin to smother her in kisses. The Doctor comes back in, followed by another medic in scrubs who seems to be his superior.

“…for twelve months, a level six coma, little or no reaction to outside stimuli, and then she wakes up! Never seen anything like it.” He takes the clip chart from the end of her bed. Flipping through it, his caterpillar eyebrows fly upwards.

“This is a miracle.”

The Doctor echoes his words. “A medical miracle.”

“What happened?” Her father asks in a shocked voice.

“I kissed her! I kissed her, and she woke up!” I exclaim. She smiles at me and I feel a hot ache in my chest that’s part pain, part pleasure. “He’s right, he woke me up.” She says seriously. “I felt it. The kiss. I felt like I was underwater, and it pulled me up.” Her mother brushes a stray lock of hair from her forehead.

“My sleeping beauty. My darling sleeping beauty. You are awake at last.”

Life and Death and Adorable Pets

Unease

There once was a young girl, who lived a perfectly ordinary, simple and nondescript life. She woke alone, she ate alone, she worked alone, and she went to sleep in a vast, empty bed. She thought that she was perfectly happy and content.

But one day, as she sat spinning wool, she realised that she felt uneasy. A feeling, a tiny thought, had crept inside her. It was small, vague, like a mist over her mind. She carried on spinning, trying to dismiss the niggling doubt, and for a while she was able to ignore it.

That night, as she lay in bed, the feeling returned with more strength. It slipped inside her and took root. It was unease: a strange feeling that something was wrong, but not knowing what. Nothing is worse than an unnameable fear. She stared up at the ceiling, wishing she could fall asleep and escape. But even when she did slip away, her dreams were full of darkness.

As the days went by, the feeling didn’t leave her. It grew and intensified and became an obsession. A sentence kept coming into her head, pounding endlessly through her brain until it became a constant rhythm drumming in the background:  Something is wrong! Something is wrong!

It was strongest when she was idle, so she busied herself around her small two-roomed house. She washed and cleaned and tided and dusted until her house was cleaner than it had ever been; but the foreboding remained. It wasn’t a small thought in the back of her mind: it was in her body, her stomach, her bones. It was everywhere and everything and in every corner of her mind.

In one of her calmer moments, she sensed something above the terrible unease. It’s as though there’s a storm on the horizon: something is coming. Something is about to snap.

Her life stopped. She barely slept. She didn’t eat. She spun wool like a mad woman, driving the wheel so fast it blurred out of sight. She paced up and down, up and down her small house. Every night she tossed and turned dozed fitfully, sobbing in her sleep. Her skin appeared to shrink, sharply defining her bones. Her young face looked gaunt and haunted in the mirror. The terrible unease filled her and consumed her and drove her to the edge of despair.

One night, when the moon was especially bright, she lay on her bed and stared at the ceiling. She was desperately unhappy; she couldn’t escape the awful feelings any more. They had possessed her.

Weak and exhausted, she tossed and turned through the night. In her broken state, it was easy for a fever to sneak past her fallen defences and force itself into her body. She tossed and turned and sweated and moaned until there was nothing left…

…Nothing at all.

She sat up. For the first time in weeks, she didn’t feel uneasy. She felt nothing. She was absolutely numb, and as empty as a burst balloon. She stood up and walked through her immaculate house in a daze. Her eyes were unfocused, staring straight ahead at nothing.

All the time she’d spent cleaning and tidying, all the years she’d lived in her small house: but now she felt nothing for it. She no longer cared. She unlocked the door and walked out, leaving the door wide open and the key still in the lock.

Barefoot, and wearing only a thin nighty, she walked. The moon was round and incredibly bright, like a silver penny suspended among the stars. The world felt unreal, like a painting: totally still and silent, painted in only two colours: silver moonlight and black shadow. Nothing moved and she began to feel that none of this was real: that if she reached out to touch a tree, it was dissolve into smoke in her hands. The thought made her shiver and she increased her pace slightly.

She walked and walked, at first through streets and past dark houses, and then out into the wilderness, over hills and forests and grasslands. She walked without pausing, without resting, a steady trot onwards to nowhere.

Faintly, through her numbness, a thought arose… something is wrong with Time. It’s stopped. She wondered how long she’d been walking for. Followed by another; or perhaps Time is flying past so quickly that it only appears to be staying still.

She continued walking through the unchanging world. The silence was beginning to get to her. There was no breeze to move the trees, no people awake to talk, and no dogs to howl or bark. It was days, or perhaps years, until feeling came back to her. A tiny crack opened in the fog of numbness, and through it came a faint feeling that her journey was almost at an end. Relief, satisfaction, and a weary ache. Some time after this, she came across a little house. Instantly, she knew that this was what she had been searching for.

She had walked past hundreds of houses on her never-ending journey, but in each the windows were dark and shadows seemed to spill from the doorways, like black breath being exhaled from cavernous mouths. She had hurried on past them, uncaring. But this house was different.

The door had been flung open and warm, golden light spilled through. All the windows were lit up, light spilling from every pore of the house. The small crack in her fog of indifference widened, lengthened, was joined by multitudes more; and then, in one great mighty rush, the numbness and emptiness that had been constricting her fell away, and a rush of gladness filled her. The force of the emotion was so great that she stopped in her tracks.

Free! She thought with joy. She embraced her emotions, remembering the unique touch of each of them. Taking another step, she winced. Mentally examining her body, she was shocked. I must’ve walked a long way, she realised with surprise, because I’m aching all over. My bones, my hips, my back. She tried to touch her toes but stopped before she’d even reached halfway, gasping with pain. What’s happened to me?

She turned her attention to the house, placing her fists on her hips and scrutinising it. And the more she gazed at the house, the more she recognised it. It was just so familiar – she knew that, if she went inside, she would know exactly were every little thing belonged. That’s the window to the bedroom, she thought. And she was right.

She headed for the house again, but found herself hobbling. I hurt all over, she grumbled. But despite her aches and pains, she hurried towards the house as quickly as she could. I know this house. Why?

She walked through the open door and was not surprised to find herself in a living room. She turned to close the door and saw that the sky was no longer as black as coal: like ink that washes out of a garment, the darkness had begun to fade away. Colour had returned to the world. And soon the sun will rise, she thought, and her heart lifted in happiness.

She closed the door. The key was in the keyhole so she locked it and slipped it into the pocket of her nighty. Turning around, she peered around at the little living room. A fire flickered warmly in the hearth, and an old rocking chair stood close to the fire. A door led off to what she knew was the bedroom. The lady chuckled. I love that old chair. She hobbled over to it and slowly sat down.

Half-finished knitting sat nearby, as though it was only a minute ago that that it had been laid down by its owner. It just seemed so natural to reach out and pick it up. It uncoiled to become a long pink and yellow scarf.

Without thinking, she slipped the thick needles between her knobbly fingers and began to knit. Soon, the clackity-clack of needles filled the warm room. The lady smiled, feeling a strange but pleasant sense of dejá-vu. Soon she was rocking back and forth, humming a little song to herself that she didn’t know she knew. Absentmindedly, she thought, yellow and pink; they’re her favourite colours.

She slammed her feet down and stopped rocking so suddenly she nearly tipped herself off the chair. The thought stopped her in her tracks. At first, she was confused. How do I know that? How do I know that this scarf is the favourite colours of someone I’ve never met? Then she began to worry. What on earth am I doing? I’ve walked into someone else’s house, and now I’m just sitting here doing their knitting! She looked down at the long mess of wool. I don’t even know how to knit! On the verge of hysteria, she tossed it to the side and stood up, panic thrashing in her heart.

She caught sight of movement behind her and turned, startled and afraid. A mirror hung on the wall and, for a moment, the lady stared at it in disbelief. Her feet walked forwards without her consent. Shock stopped her thoughts.

She was old. And not even middle-aged old; she was ancient. Her skin was dark from years of hard work in the sun and so heavily wrinkled she resembled an apricot stone. Her eyes looked like they’d shrunk backwards into her head and her lips were small and puckered. She looked like a happy woman, though – not bitter and mean. Her eyes twinkled mischievously and her lips curved up in the corners. Hours ago, I was a young girl. I don’t understand!

She had opened her mouth and was examining her teeth when the loud creak of the bedroom opening made her freeze in fear. There’s no time to hide! She thought in a panic. An old man shuffled through the doorway. She stood, frozen in position, ready to run or fight or apologise… but then she looked at him: really looked at him. His hair was thin and as grey as a rainy day, framing his heavily lined face. His eyes were wise, old, and so warm. When he saw her, his eyes lit up with love and he smiled. She knew him.

Without realising it, she smiled in return. An unexpected thought hit her: I love this man and he loves me.

Suddenly, she understood everything. The scarf. Her sudden aches and pains. Her reflection. I know this house because it’s my house; I know this man because he’s my man. That scarf is for my youngest granddaughter, and she’ll be six in a fortnight. I know all this because this is my life. I’ve walked through time into my own future.

Her husband opened his arms and without hesitating, she went into them. Cocooned in his warm embrace, she realised that not only was this her life, but this was the life she’d always wanted.

She thought back to her old house and her old life. She’d spent it alone, doing the same thing day after monotonous day. She’d seen no-one, spoke to no-one, loved no-one. Totally alone.

And then the uneasiness made me change. Made me leave. And I walked through time until found a time I was happy. And here I’m determined to stay. I’d rather be ancient and happy than youthful and alone.

She closed her eyes and breathed in the familiar smell of her husband. A smile curved her lips.

This is my life. I’m home.

Summer’s Energy

My lungs seem so large in my chest

The summer air has inflated them

For the first time in months

I can breathe normally

 

Sprint a thousand miles, never gasp for breath

The landscape peeling past

A thousand different views; all

Golden, shining, glorious

Liquid energy coursing through my veins

I’ve never felt so alive

Image Credit: Rosikifish

Spider’s Tightrope

Gripping the tightrope with my legs

I try not to look down

Or remind myself of just how thin the string is

From which my life hangs.

Written for Ermilia’s Picture It & Write

Irony

 

If I could still breathe, I would laugh with irony.

All my life, I had one obsession: I wanted to live forever. I wanted to live on, and on, and on. I wanted to never feel the aching of old age, never to be ill, never to die.

I spent my days obsessing, worrying, freaking out over the tiniest things. I called the doctor when I had a cold: I carried around a first aid kit with me everywhere. I wasted my days away, worrying about death, when I should’ve been more concerned about living.

It was an absolute obsession and it consumed my life. As a result, I never truly lived. I never watched the sun set, or felt the silkiness of a bird’s feathers, or lay down in the woods and listened to the wind in the trees. I never did anything last minute or spontaneous. I never did anything that could be the slightest bit dangerous: I never had proper, good old-fashioned fun.

So I wasted away my entire life worrying about my death.

And, of course, I died. There was no way of stopping it. After all my efforts, I couldn’t prevent my death from coming. I couldn’t hold it up for one single second. Along with everyone else, I died.

But I’m still here.

I don’t know what’s supposed to happen, but I know it’s not this.

The house I lived in is now my prison. Perhaps it’s because I wasted my life indoors that, after my death, I am eternally confined to my house. I sit here, unchanged, as my house falls to pieces around me. I watch as the cobwebs stretch out to cover every surface, as the water drips through the ceiling from a hole in the roof I never mended, as the windows grow darker and darker as the layers of grime build up.

At first, I thought; “Someone will come. Someone will come to check on me,”

But as the years drifted by, unchanging, I realised the truth.

Why would anyone come a visit me when I had never visited them? The truth was, I had no friends in life. I had no need for friends, so consumed was I by my foolish quest. And I would spend my death lonely as a result.

The years yawn by and here I remain.

If I could go back – try again – I would. I would do things differently. I would travel to another country and lose myself in their culture. I would learn a forgotten language just because I could. I would go for long runs and not stop until I was exhausted. I would live as though I would die tomorrow. Because, I think, I’ve learnt my lesson now. Life is a gift. And I threw mine away unopened.

I wasted my life obsessing about my death.

Now I’m going to spend my death obsessing about my life.

If my lungs weren’t clogged up with dust, I would laugh with the irony.

Image was taken and edited by me

Mr McGregor

This was written by myself and the fantastical Rosikii.
* * *

I took my time tiding up my desk, sweeping all the minuscule scraps of paper into my hand before walking to the empty bin. I tilted my hand and watched as the paper fell, swirling gracefully through the air like an artificial snowstorm. Back at my desk, I slowly pulled my coat on. I looked furtively around. Alma was still plucking pieces of paper from the floor, like a chicken pecking at seed: but she would soon be gone. I pretended to rifle through my bag for something nonexistent until she had disappeared through the classroom door.

The slam of the door roused Mr McGregor, who jumped and looked up with slightly defocused eyes. For a second he seemed to look straight through me like I was a ghost; but then he blinked, smiled warmly and said, “Georgia, what can I do for you?”

I bit my lip. I’d spent the entire lesson obsessing over this – what to say, how to begin, the way I should say it – and now I was here, facing him, I found my mouth was dry and the words stuck in my throat. But Mr McGregor seemed to understand.

“Come here, Georgia.” He said quietly, but not unkindly. I shuffled closer to his desk, looking at my feet so that I could hide behind a screen of hair. I heard him speak again, in a voice so parental I suddenly wished that he was my dad. “Now then. What is it you want to tell me?”

I kept looking down. The words I needed refused to dislodge themselves from my throat. I swallowed, but I still felt like there was something in my throat. Finally, I looked Mr McGregor straight in the eyes and blurted,

“Sir, recently, I… I have been having trouble using my levitation skills.”

He leant back in his chair, taking it all in, but saying nothing.

“Look, I practise everyday, I don’t know why it’s happening, especially now!” I confessed to him, stumbling over words as they tumbled from my mouth. There was a short silence before he replied.

“Georgia, listen to me. You will not lose your powers, not under my watch. Levitation is an extremely rare gift amongst the population, and it doesn’t just disappear over night, my dear.”

His mouth crinkled into a reassuring smile as he picked up a pen from his overcrowded desk. He quickly scribbled down a few words on a post-it note, his writing swirly with great flourishes on the G’s and Y’s. He gently took my hand and pressed the crumpled paper into my palm.

“Here the name of the person I trust completely. He too possesses the power of levitation. He will, I promise, do everything in his power to help you.” His eyes were so pure and true; I couldn’t help but believe him.

“Thank… thank you, sir.” I whispered, offering him a shy smile. He smiled gently and gestured towards the door. It was time for me to leave. As I walked out of the classroom questions meandered across my mind. Would this man be able to help me? Could I trust him? I glanced over my shoulder at the door, but it was already closed.

Archives

%d bloggers like this: