Gone
The loud fairy clangor of the birds called to me, pulling me from the dark embrace of slumbering oblivion. I awoke and was born anew, blinking my eyes free of the shadows of death-like sleep. Such dreams had haunted and dwelled within the confines of my mind during the hours of the night, entangling me within their visions of fear and wonder. Now, they were merely fragments of memory, night creatures cast aside in favor of the sun’s reality. Yet, still in the mind, these fragments lingered (the brush of a raven’s wing, the whisper of the passing wind, the flickering grace of a candle’s flame) for a few moments more, to cast a pall upon the coming day.
In bright contrast to my dark premonitions, the sky outside my window was wearing the cheery blue of innocence, with a blazing sun to adorn its open countenance. The wind-rustled leaves of the tree by my window beckoned to me, to come forth and partake in the sweetness of this midsummer’s day. Eager to shed the wearisome burden of my nameless fears, I gladly arose to join the land of the living, to a present free of worries and cares.
I was staying with my aunt at her cottage for the duration of the summer, free to roam and revel in the spacious openness of the countryside, where the green scent of pine and grass in the air made the concrete gray of urban smog but a distant memory. Having lived in the city since I first took breath in this world, this land of green nature was an intoxicating experience, where the simple act of breathing became something new and refreshing to be savored with appreciation.
I ran downstairs to the kitchen, full of energy and good spirits, only to be confronted by the sight of my mother sitting there at the kitchen table, eyes red with unshed tears, staring sightlessly into space. I could hear the voice of my aunt in the distance, providing a low murmuring monologue of shock and disbelief, conversing with a nameless someone on the phone. My aunt then came into the kitchen and told me the news. I looked out through the window, and could still see the land of light and endless beauty, free of shadows and darkness, for they had all descended upon this house, my family. A black tide of misery swelled up from within, threatening to engulf me and claim me as a victim to its endless depths of night.
It was my younger sister Clara, a girl who had been all of nine years of age, who had been taken, wrested from us, whose voice was silenced forever by the red hand of death, which had reached out to snap the bright thread of her life. She should have been the one to come inhale the air of life back into her lungs, to run barefoot in the grass with her face up towards the sun, to look in awe at all the stars that glittered so bright in the sky, not I. Instead, she’d spent her last breaths, surrounded by the stark and sterile white of the hospital, with masked and inhuman faces peering down at her, and felt the chilling touch of steel, as it pierced her skin.
It had been called an accident, as if it were unexpected that disaster would occur with a drunken man behind the wheel of a speeding hunk of metal. A girl crosses the street to school, looks up, the screech of tires, and then the slow red drip of blood, a small figure crumpled in a heap upon the asphalt.
She was gone. I had begun my life as an only child, and I would now continue my life as an only child. There would be no Clara to yell at, to fight with over all the little things that sisters do, to compete with for my parents’ attention, to share with all my secrets and dreams, and to laugh with over the joys of life. I felt empty.
I walked over to my mother’s side and clasped her hand, in a blind need to comfort and to be comforted. Her eyes finally focused on me, and saw me, now her only child, standing before her. We hugged each other, the only we could express our love and sorrow.
I spent the rest of the day in a haze of pain. Everyone had insisted that I remain with my aunt for two more weeks, at a comfortable distance from the reality of the funeral preparations, despite my objections to the contrary. Now, all the joys that nature had to offer could not overcome the walls of my grief. All I could see were ashes, a gray world stalked by death.
I drifted around like a wraith for days, lost in my despair. When my aunt saw the state I was in, she sat me in front of the table with a blank piece of paper and pen in hand. She told me she would not let me leave my chair unless that piece of paper was full of my words, my thoughts, and my feelings. For an hour or so, I could only stare numbly at that snowy sheet of whiteness, which all too aptly reflected the state of my mind. Then the words came, pouring forth in a multitude, a torrent, a river of thoughts, flowing without end.
When I stopped, it was already night. I put down the pen, and for the first time in days, I felt the pangs of hunger, reminding me that though Clara was dead, I was still very much alive and living in this world. The wound in my heart was still there, yet I knew that the pain would lessen with the passage of time. I went to sleep, looking forward to the coming of the next day.
Back to the beginning!