Reading YA, Writing YA, and Being Totally Awesome discussion
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Can we get 1,000 posts?
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by
Francis, The British Lad
(new)
Jan 26, 2014 02:45PM
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#yolo
#swaggie
#cool
Watching TV. And giving you a weird look.
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*grabs the pole and dances*
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Holy crap lol.
Ok..... This is gonna be a loooooooooooooooooooooong post.
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We'll be there in no time.
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While I'm at it, I might as well post my short story.
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I sit on a worn down chair next to the bed. I hear the chirping of the birds from outside, the gentle breeze stirring the grass and flowers, carrying the smell of dew and freshly cut grass. The sun rays penetrate and give the surgically-white room an exotic, orangey glow. It’s quite ironic really, how it’s a perfect summers day and yet my world is falling apart. Usually, when someone is dying, the weather is raining and sullen. At least it is in books and movies.
The room is clean and painfully white. The sound of the life-support machine has become normal and reassuring in the last few days. As long as I hear the consistent beating, I know she’s alive.
I gulp and promptly glance over at her. Her face is a corpse—pallid and hollow, almost sickening, I take note the stark contrast of her face and hair; her hair is the opposite, still as shiny and raven black as ever. She looks peaceful, even in her last days. I hope her death is quick and painless but even I know that is not possible unless I do it myself. How can I kill her?—her who is my world; my other half; my soul mate, even if my intent is not malicious.
The memories flash through me, when we first discovered she was dying three months ago. I remember how I put on a brave face, smiling as brightly as ever just for her, and when she slept I broke down and wept for hours. I still do. We wanted to be together forever, grow up and start a family; grow old and sit on a porch somewhere, cuddling as we happily watched our grandchildren play. But now, that’s all been obliterated. Gone, forever, into the void of lost hopes and dreams.
I break out of my reverie when I hear her stir. I hover over her to make sure she’s okay. She idly opens her dark blue eyes and gives me a weak smile. I kiss her cheek.
“How do you feel?” I say, brushing my fingers through her dark waves.
“I’m okay,” she manages and tries to arrange herself in a sitting position. I help her gently.
My eyes glisten and I feel the familiar tears race down my cheeks.
She frowns. “Don’t cry. I’m dying, I know but we’ll be together again. I’ll get to see my mum, my dad and my sister. Someday I’ll see you too.”
Tears roll down her face.
“B-but you’re crying.” I waver.
She gives a feeble, half-hearted laugh. “I’m allowed to cry, I’m dying, remember? Besides, I’m crying because I’m happy. I wish I had some touching last words to say like in those tragic movies.”
We sit in silence for several minutes, both recovering from our tears.
“I wanna go.” She mumbles, brushing my cheek softly. I shudder.
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t want to spend my last moments in hospital, how depressing is that? I wanna go, for a walk in the park—to feel the warm sunshine on my face and watch the children playing.” She explains. I smile nostalgically. That’s the girl I know and love.
“I’ll try but I don’t know if they’ll let you out.” I bit my lip and walk out the room. I find the nearest nurse.
“My girlfriend, she’s dying. She wants to go. She doesn’t want to spend her last moments in here. Please, can I take her?” I say pleadingly.
The nurse gives me a sad smile but shakes her said. “I’m sorry but that’s not possible. It’s against the rules.”
I groan, my vision blurring. “Please, I’m begging you. Please!”
She shakes her head solemnly, gives me another sad smile, sympathising, then walks off.
I walk back to deliver the bad news.
“It’s fine. It just would have been nice, you know?” She says.
I know exactly what she means; I wouldn’t want to spend my last moments in a hospital—with the sweet smell of death. I know what to do.
~
I break her out, although it isn’t easy. I rob a wheelchair, and vigilantly withdraw the wires from her body, except the life machine which conveniently is compact and easy to carry. I focus all my energy on granting her this one last thing.
I stroll through the park, pushing her wheelchair. We get a lot of sympathising looks from people walking past. She closes her eyes and breaths in the fresh air like a new born baby for the first time. She sighs happily when the congenial sun hits her. I pick her some flowers, even though I’m pretty sure you aren’t allowed to. I brought us ice creams and we sit eating them, me on the end of a bench and her next to me on the wheelchair, looking appreciatively at the soupy, greenish lake and the ducks floating lazily as though it’s a Sunday morning, the occasional scaly fish surfacing or splashing; the laughter and screams of the children playing jovially on the swings, the roundabout and the slides. It was perfect and blissful.
She rests her head on my shoulder and we stay there pretty much the whole day, however the medication she was on beginning to wear off and she grows ill extremely quick. I drive her back to the hospital as fast as I can.
I beg them not to arrest me for “kidnapping” an ailing patient—at least until after I saw she was okay. They oblige reluctantly.
“I can feel it,” she says in a half-whisper, “its coming.”
She screams in pain and I begin to sob, clutching onto her hand as I watch her die, unable to do anything.
She breathes heavily, struggling to form words.
“I-I promise, w-we’ll be together a-again. I l-l-love you. P-promise me that y-you’ll never f-forget m-me.” She manages.
“I promise.” I say and she smiles, she looks relieved and her eyes slowly shut and consistent beeping of the life-machine stops abruptly. I feel something within me shatter, like I have lost an arm or leg. I sob and try to shake her awake; it’s all a dream; a very bad dream, I’m going to wake up and everything will be fine; but the nursing staff restrains me.
I cannot help but think it’s my fault, my fault she died. I feel that way every single night until my death.
~
I finally see her again, we’re on a beach. She looks more beautiful and flawless than ever, her raven hair cascades down to her mid-back and her deep blue eyes gleam. I see my deceased family members huddle around her, my mum, my sister, my child, all smiling. She holds out her hand and says: “I’ve been waiting old man.”
68 years, to be exact.
I smile and take her hand.
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That's so sweet. I think I have a tear coming on. Seriously.
Oh my gosh, Francis. I just re read it. That's beautiful. Are you published?
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This short story or another one? Dang, your good. What book/newsletter are you getting published in?
Aww . . . :,) *cries* That was fantastic, Francis!!!
Right now I'm writing a short story to enter a contest where the winner gets $500 (not like I care) and gets to be published in a writing magazine! (Which is the part I'm actually excited for,) Francis, I'll have to thank you if I win. Your story is my inspiration. Thank you.
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Aw, I'm SO glad to be your inspiration! :D Like seriously! I hope you win! :D
Thanks. I'll mention you on the short bio they make everyone write. Then you can be in the newsletter, too.
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48 whoop. Keep posting. 952 to go guise. c:
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Party & bull.
