This is a short story I wrote a couple of days ago. It doesn’t really have any connection to anything that is related to me, but it just came to my mind and I thought the topic was sort of a cool idea. It’s probably really cliché and not that good, but I wanted to publish it anyway because some of my friends wanted to read it.
I’d be happy about comments on what you think of it.
Years had passed since I had last felt it. That agonizing pain, that horrible feeling of hatred in my chest and mind. I’d been walking for hours and my mind had started wandering about. So many things went from my passive memory to my active concious and then back again. But some things just sort of stuck. Her outfit, her eyes. Her hair. That feeling I had when we first kissed and the one I had when we last saw each other. And I even know it was going to be the last time, ever. I knew she was going to do it.
It was a windy evening, and the rain was hammering against the thick glass windows above us. Laying next to her, I watched the little droplets rush down the steady slope. I turned around to find she had started to stand up and wander about the room. She turned briefly and looked back at me, her blue eyes shimmering in the darkness that contained us in the night. Her long, redish hair, wavy as it always was, yet somehow less perfect. Less prominent. She just stood there, in front of the window, shivering a little in the cold of the harsh winter. I got up, turned on the heater a little and just stood next to her, holding her soft, small hand. It felt like hours had gone by. Days. We just stood there, glaring outside at the moon that was slowly crossing over the overcast, dark sky. It felt threatening, yet somehow peaceful too, because of her at my side.
It was the best and the most horrible day of my life, and I only knew when the good part was already long gone. Later that evening, while I was laying on the bed again, looking at the still dripping drops of rain race across the shimmering windows around me, while she was preparing drinks and popcorn, I found myself turn to the side and see a tiny red booklet in the dim light of the lamp on the night stand. It was just sitting there, waiting for me to open it up, just take a peek. So I did.
My eyes started hastily skipping across the text, the last few pages full of expressions of love, combined with expressions of hate and disgust. The pages were dark and gloomy, seemingly randomly spammed with ink and paint and pictures. Tiny parts of eraser were stuck to the pages that were filled with pencil, most pages had ripped edges or entire pages missing inbetween and some pages were just loosely stuck into the back of the diary. The page I found last was the one from the day before. It had been written in dark red ink, the pen must’ve been thick and soft, as the red bloodish ink had sunk itself into the soft, browning paper’s tiny canals of nothing, making the text all blurry and even more bloody looking. The bottom half of the page was ripped out, but it seemed nowhere to be found in the back of the diary, but I read the top out aloud, whispering slowly and carefully, to myself:
I can’t do this. I can’t live with this anymore. My relationship is the only thing that I can hold on to. Nothing breaks me down more than my family. And school.
I was startled. I didn’t know what she meant. She had never told me that she had problems with anything. To be honest, her parents always seemed really nice to me. Her mother was a teacher at some school for hard-to-educate children with certain illnesses and diseases. She looked just like her daughter. Everytime I saw her I started to think of her daughter, my girlfriend, it was inevitable. No one resembled her more than her mother, and her mother was also one of the most lovely people ever knew. She had always brought us hot chocolate and warm cookied that she had made herself. And she always allowed us to be alone, lock the room and she didn’t even mind me staying overnight. I couldn’t possibly think of any reason why my girlfriend wouldn’t like her mother, or have any problems with her.
And her father didn’t seem bad either. I never really knew him much because he was a businessman and had to travel to different cities a lot, but he sort of resembled her too and seemed like a pretty nice guy. To me, they always seemd like a peaceful and happy family. But maybe I was totally blind all along.
I was still walking, thinking of the diary and the day and the water droplets on the window above us. I was tumbling over every rock and into every hole on the path, but yet, for some reason, I never fell. The trees were moving back and forth in the wind and the pain just didn’t want to go away. When I arrived at the little church after hours of walking from home, I felt relieved, but the pain kept growing and growing on the way there. It was monsterous. My eyes were watering again as I saw her parents look at me with an indistinguishable expression.
When the light brown box was lowered into the pit, every last person who wasn’t before started crying loudly. There was three red roses on top of the box, and her brother was there and her parents were there. Everbody was crying. Everbody was holding tissues. Everbody was holding each other, as tightly as they could, hoping to contain their sadness and contain their crying and contain their feelings. And I was just standing there, sinking all of it in.
I probably stood there for hours, starting at the open grave. They had already placed a wooden cross that, as her parents told me, was going to be replaced with a huge tombstone.
She had never even wanted to be buried when she died. When we talked about it, just for fun, she’d always say
I want to be burned. And then, I want you to throw out the ashes. Off a boat. You. No one else.
But I just couldn’t do it. They asked me. And I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t have ever done it. So I said no.
And then they just buried her.
Not everbody gets what they want, and sometimes it’s way worse than that.
But some things just stick with you, like tiny bits of eraser on and old, gray piece of paper that once contained stories of hope and dreams. All memories are just waiting to be rubbed away by someone, and all the pain. But sometimes it just doesn’t happen.
Some things stick, like that agonizing pain. The hoarrible feeling of hatred in my chest and mind.
Often times now, I just start walking for hours, with my mind wandering about. I’ll walk to the graveyard, to see the grave. I’ll stare at the gate, again and again, just standing there. But I always turn back then. I always turn back too soon.
I never made it back to the grave. And I don’t know if I ever will.