LikingThat

Leaping Tiger

Chubby cheeks, pigtails, huge blue eyes. As a child, she told me she loved balloons. That her uncle called her "Professor" because of the sophisticated words she used at a young age and that she always had a smile on her face. She loved soap bubbles and daisies, sunflowers and raspberries. She would jump from her bed and land in a split, laughing when her mom scolded her for doing it. Her first apple pie stuck to the bottom of a fry pan and her mom stepped into the kitchen as she was shaking the pan with two hands to get it out. When she was fourteen, she fell in love. Fixing a strand of hair behind her ear, I saw her sitting on the linoleum floor, pouring intensely over my wrinkled pages. She told me that I knew her the way no one else does and I opened myself up to her deepest secrets. Years later, I watched her flip to the first page, and keep reading. Images. Scenes of the past. Long-lost conversations. A small envelope fell from my inside pocket. Within it was a hand-crafted card with the face of an animated girl. Her smile and eyes were clear contours. Her hat was a gentle flower with a tint of strawberry and her necklace was a twisted beaded thread with a plastic heart. Filling the cover was a face, youthful, with a radiant smile over two elegantly written words, “Love you”. It was the card she bought one summer in the past and asked me to guard. The card she never sent. 

Dreams: 

- roller blades ü
- Barbie house ü
- new Nintendo game ü
- 5th Harry Potter book ü
- go to a zoo ü
- 100000 neopoints ü
- learn 3+ languages ü
- forget Owell
- visit relatives ü
- visit France
- Be Happy

At the age of nine, she broke her leg from metal swings and had to stay at the hospital, feeling the ache of being away from home. She shared a room with three other girls, all older than her. They spoke of boyfriends and dramas, and broke the rules. To her, it seemed like they spoke in a foreign language, of things she did not understand. Often, they would leave the room at night to sneak into the nurse’s lounge to watch television, while she lay in her bed, staring at the ceiling, afraid to step out of confines. Three months later, she returned home with bandages winding their way around her hip and crutches under her arms. She told me that for the first time, the playground outside her building looked grim and dark. She could now notice the backs of benches with filthy words sprawled all over them, and the rusted bars of swings that stole three months of her childhood.

Today I am leaving to visit my relatives in Nazran. I will miss everyone. That train… I kiss mom. Mom leaves and the train moves. 

She spoke of rain, of relatives, of being sick of writing about love. She read her words from childhood and asked me why the world isn’t that simple anymore. One day she stayed home because the Nord-Ost theatre on her way to school was held by armed men and women. An audience of 850 people taken hostage as a rebellion against the presence of Russian forces in Chechnya. Toxic gas was thrown into the theatre by Russian forces to prevent death of innocent people, yet in the process, more than 100 hostages died from the severe attack along with the rebels. Years later, she told me she was too young to understand. That the world was fighting fire with fire and that peace seemed nowhere to be found.

Today mom told me that soon we will go to Canada and join my dad. He called us and told me that once the paperwork is done, we will join him in no time. I was so happy. I haven’t seen him in 3 years. 

Months after we arrived in Canada, she told me of an old man who used to sit in the lobby of her building, seated in a wheelchair. When her friends would visit to sit on the sofas and drink cappuccinos, he was there. When they set the camera on the table and ran to take a picture before the flash went off, he was there. When she came back from her trips, he was there. Until that year. A paper was taped to the glass of the front door, an invitation to his funeral. It was the first time she lost someone she knew.

 I wonder how old I am (when I will be reading this) and I wonder how long this journal will be with me. Imagine! I want to know what will happen in the future but I don’t want to grow up too fast. There is so much I want to write but… it’s too late and my hand is tired.

Time doesn’t exist here. She kept losing track of days, finding herself not remembering whether she spoke with me yesterday or days ago. But I remembered. When she left to visit her relatives, they went to her aunt’s place. She got out of the car and stopped. He was standing right there, a copy of him like a ghost. I know he was the reason I exist. The reason she decided to keep pouring words out in scrambled phrases. And it is her words that kept me alive. 

As she grew older, she wasn’t allowed to step out of the house without her male cousin during her visits to Nazran. It wasn’t decent or safe for a teenage girl to be seen alone on the street. One day, she found herself sitting with her cousin, Rose, on benches in their garden blocked from the neighborhood by a tall brick wall. Behind it, they could hear whispering of boys from the neighborhood. Out of curiosity, her cousin climbed the apple tree and was in the middle of eavesdropping when the branch she was sitting on cracked. Before falling and hanging on to another branch below, she threw an empty water bottle over the wall. They could hear it hit the ground on the other side. The whispers died. She always spoke of walls, of boundaries and restraints. Her words flowed and filled me up but with each added year of her life, she faded away.

Doors Upon Myself
The greatest heaving pain
that crawls inside
your lungs and drains your soul:
the pain of words.
You watch them run and take your
breath away for far too long.
While I am here, I’ll never be alone
The words I cannot rid of 
are my own.

She wrote of her cousins growing up, many of them married. Those that married had kids. Beautiful children that filled houses with laughter and baby talk. She told me we’re all dragged into a whirlwind of expectations, standards, and ranks. She told me that every year, more is expected of her. It’s impossible to lock yourself up from the rest of the society in fear of changing. That everyone changes whether or not they want to, but it is the way we deal with everyday problems that’s more important. How we react to the challenges that come our way. How we treat one another even though we’re sure we won't be treated the same way. Is that always right? Is it right to give away sympathy, understanding, and trust without getting anything in return? Is it right to care even when it's a one-way emotion? She told me she’s afraid of growing up. Of the world changing her into someone she wouldn’t be able to recognize. She hoped I’d remind her. Yet, sometimes she’d speak for hours, then make me forget, ripping parts of me into pieces.  

Since I'm here, it's clear I've hit rock bottom. When I'm older none of my everyday problems will matter. Whether I go to this event or that party or that gathering they all expect me to be at. At the end of the day, it's just me and the mirror, and it’s up to me whether I will look at myself without regrets, or face a lifetime of "I should have"s. One day, I want to look back at this and remember who I am. I'm so...so...tired. I want to do something, be something, but all I have is what others expect of me. So I turn away from both, and it drives them mad. I've bottled up so much that it simply glides off the surface now. I feel it, no one sees it. I'm just a walking statue made of glass.  

When she was seventeen, she told me that one evening she was walking with a book in her hands. “History of Music”. A man quietly followed behind her and asked her if she was taking music lessons. 

“What are you studying? Piano?” He spoke slowly in slurred lines while smiling. She nodded and kept walking. 

“I want to learn how to play an instrument. Maybe your teacher can give me a lesson too, huh?” his shadow towered over her. Her feet moved faster instinctively. He caught up. 

“You look nice”, he pointed at her shirt. She could see the house now, hoping she had enough time. He kept smiling.  She ran through the door. 

For years, I kept coming back to this journal when I needed it most. My place to let it all out, the good and the bad. At times, my escape. Sometimes I wonder if anyone really got to know me. All of me. Reading this journal would’ve helped them get closer to who I am, but it’s a maze, with its twists and turns and vague, hidden phrases. Fully knowing a person, realizing their feelings are as real as the words coming out of their mouths or flowing on paper, seems like something attainable in a different universe. I guess at times we’re afraid to show who we really are inside. Whether we assume the other person won’t understand you or won’t appreciate the things you do. And so we become chameleons, hiding a whole world inside that only opens to those who we believe deserve to know.

She asked me why decisions used to be so simple and why suddenly the world’s expectations shot through the roof. She told me that there must be something better out there. That this world is too full. That she doesn’t want to change. She told me it’s all about time. That time is the only thing we can't outrun. The only thing we can't change. It will always be there, passing by with the same pace as your life moves on. And time is the only thing we can never have enough of.

One day, she dreamt of her cousin holding a white kitten. They were standing in a park, with tall trees filled with purple flowers surrounding them. Snow was slowly falling and landing on the ground in a soft blanket. She watched the kitten’s white fur and bright blue eyes. It purred, stretched its paws, and nuzzled. Then, as she approached, it began to grow. Years turned into seconds, transforming the small kitten into a tiger as it leaped in her direction. She saw its fangs and sharp claws. To this day, the dream terrified her. 

I always think of the past and how much is gone from my memory. Just bits and pieces. We remember things that hurt or things that make us happy, things that played huge roles in our lives. Is wanting to carry it all, every little bit inside unnecessary? We're not really given a choice. I won’t remember the smell of that perfume, the look on his face, the line in that book. I tell them I’m not scared of anything... but I’m afraid of the future. Of the unknown. I never loved deep water; it wasn’t the fear of drowning but the fear of not knowing what's below. I was scared of the dark when I was younger, not because I believed a monster would jump out from under the bed and grab me but because I couldn’t see. I pray to god the world won’t make me blind.

One day, she told me she won’t write in me again. I reminded her of dreams and memories that I have treasured and kept hidden within my walls. Of her being afraid of losing herself in a world of change. She said she no longer needed me to remind her who she was, and all I could do was listen. I’ve carried weight of timeless memories and withstood every word in ink but it wasn’t enough. I felt each stroke dig deep into my sheets as she told me that maybe someday someone will come along that will truly understand her. She said she is tired of searching and that her world has shaped itself into something new, something she wasn’t ready to share with me. That she needed time. I watched her grow up, slowly leaving me behind with blank pages that will never be filled. Her last entry was a quote. 

“I’ll fade away, I’ll turn my back and disappear.”

She looked down at me and finished these words before closing my cover and filling my world with silence. 

Operation L

“We are one. Do you see this fist?” Murad scraped the surface of the ground with his worn-out palm, raising a handful of earth, and then lowered it for the child to take a look. Rashid’s eyes widened in amazement as green rays emitted from Murad’s fingertips and wrapped around his hand. A few rays spiraled through the air, lighting up his fascinated expression as wandering sparks landed on the tree roots beneath them.

“With this, I can heal others. When the time comes, you will be able to use this power and understand the responsibility that comes with it. It is the gift of our blood, passed on from ancestors of our homeland, Nashetia. Don’t you ever forget that.” 

Looking up at the Nashetian Mountains in the distance, he placed the earth on the cold ground and let the rays snap back into his hand.

“It’s time to go. Pack up.”

Rashid grabbed his hunting kit and raced after Murad, following his father’s footsteps in the bright moonlight. 

“Dad,” he spoke after a moment of silence, “can you tell me about great-grandpa? You said you would when I am old enough. I’m twelve now.” 

Murad sighed and waited for the child to catch up before speaking, “His name was Zelimhan…”

Zelimhan carefully rubbed his hands to spread warmth through his body. The air smelled of pine needles and burning wood. Mist slowly settled down among the surrounding trees and an owl screeched in the distance. Feeling satisfied with his successful hunting trip, he put out his campfire and headed home.

Soon Zelimhan reached his small, wooden house in the village of Nashetia and quietly hung up his coat. The house was filled with an air of silence, foreign to the usual busy commotion of everyday errands. He noticed a dim candlelight coming from the kitchen and followed it to find Leila, his sister, waiting for him at their round dinner table. She looked up in alarm, but seeing Zelimhan’s face through the doorway, relaxed and sat up in her chair as a sign of courtesy.

“How is she?” Zelimhan addressed his sister, keeping his voice down.

“You’re a father now,” she smiled gently, “It’s a boy.”

Zelimhan lowered himself into the nearest chair and closed his eyes. 

 “His name will be Abukar,” he said. The rush of happiness was accompanied by concern.

Leila’s eyes filled with joy but returned to their previous state of fear and she remained silent. Zelimhan knew the reason for her strange behaviour but was reluctant to mention the real cause for her trembling hands and the fast pace of his own heart. They thought of the marks on their left arms and hatred penetrated through Zelimhan’s mind.

“They’ll arrive as soon as we light the torch.”

Rashid interrupted his father, “Who was Zelimhan talking about? And what was on their arms?”

Murad slowed down, “Back then, when a child was born, he was marked with a stamp by a group of people called Ghaske because of difference in blood. Having that mark took away all your freedom. The Ghaske arrived every month wearing black armour and bows with venomous arrows and punished anyone who opposed their views or showed signs of revolt. The marks were one of the many reminders of the world of inequality; Nashetians lived in poverty while the Ghaske stole most of what they earned from hard labour.”

Rashid opened his mouth in surprise, “Dad, but what if you didn’t want the mark?”

“No one was given a choice. As soon as a child was born, it was the father’s responsibility to light a torch and the Ghaske would arrive.” Murad glanced at the moon before continuing, “If you tried to hide your child, eventually they would find out and kill you.” 

Zelimhan did not light the torch that day. The infant was carefully concealed from the Ghaske’s monthly inspections in a hidden basement beneath their storage house. Slowly, days, months, and years passed and Abukar learned to follow the natural routine of sliding past their back door, crawling through their sunflower field and quietly closing the trap door behind him as bells rang through Nashetia warning the Ghaske’s approach. He sat with hands folded around his knees, repeatedly counting the stones around him under his breath until five knocks above told him it was safe to return home. 

Neighbours began to feel tenderness towards the young boy and kept the family’s secret as one of their own. Little did they know a disaster was about to strike.

Whispers filled the streets of Nashetia as the Ghaske leader voiced his hatred for the Nashetian population. The Ghaske, in fear of a revolt against them, decided to deport anyone carrying the mark and this deportation was referred to as “Operation L.” Families were placed in trains, with no space for comfort, and imprisoned in a blistering cold, lifeless city of Ingan. Upon arriving, men and women settled in abandoned houses and fought for their lives against the deadly blizzards and lack of resources. 

Zelimhan stood beside a window covered by a thin sheet of animal hide and placed a few bricks on the window sill to block cold wind from creeping into his home. Walking across the room, he removed his jacket and gently wrapped it around Marem’s frail figure while she wept for their son.

“Wait a minute,” Rashid interrupted, “Didn’t the Ghaske figure out Abukar didn’t have the mark?”

“The story has just begun,” Murad replied.

Zelimhan tightened his grip on a leather suitcase and glanced at Marem. The line they were in stretched across the street and wound its way into an open field where a train awaited in the distance. Before it, a large sign was visible against the gray sky with the words “Operation L” imprinted in bold letters. Groups of Ghaske soldiers leaned on wooden benches or glided with pride past the stumbling crowds of Nashetians, occasionally spitting on the ground and rubbing the soles of their boots against the slippery saliva. Women and children wept, while Nashetian men stood in grave silence.

A large group of Ghaske orphans Abukar’s age played nearby, guarded by an old man. A small girl detached herself from the grouping and curiously walked towards the line. The adult mumbled under his breath and quickly carried her back. His gaze jerked from side to side and he gave a passing Nashetian woman a fierce look of disgust, ushering her to move on.

A wail filled the air, urging everyone forward. The line slowly shortened and more faces reached for windows in the crowded train. In mere seconds, Zelimhan grabbed Abukar’s hand and confidently approached the old man.

“This child has wandered off,” Zelimhan spoke, “You should pay closer attention to them.”

“Get back in line,” the adult barked and cast him an icy glance. He quickly scanned Abukar’s left hand and placed him among the Ghaske orphans. 

Zelimhan followed Marem into the train and glanced back at Abukar as if for the last time. The image of his son stayed with him throughout the lengthy journey to Ingan.

Rashid stopped walking.

“What happened to Abukar and the whole town?”

“Zelimhan and Marem settled in Ingan. Meanwhile, Abukar was raised with the Ghaske orphans.”

As Abukar turned fifteen, he discovered his gift of healing but hid this strange quality from everyone. It was vague memories of his parents and the wailing of a train that haunted him every night, and he feigned oblivion when others questioned his past. He knew he did not belong here and, remembering Zelimhan and Marem, felt sorrow and despair when terrible news arrived from Ingan.  

One day, loud ringing filled the peaceful village, warning of approaching danger. Bells creaked loudly before belting in a loud crescendo. Abukar noticed a soldier shouting in the distance and quickly ran towards him.

The soldier blinked furiously and, in terror, shouted at the top of his lungs, “They’re revolting! Nashetians are returning from Ingan without permission…”

He was interrupted by louder ringing of bells spreading through Nashetia, signalling for men capable of fighting to gather. Abukar rushed to the top of the nearest watch tower and caught his breath. A crowd was moving along a wide road that wound towards the forest and the abandoned rail track, separating the village from faraway lands.

No one paid attention to Abukar as he set out towards the forest. Dark clouds filled the sky and gradually it started to rain. Men were handed swords, crossbows and armour. Abukar tensed as he entered the forest and found a spot with a clear view of the front gates. He lowered himself among the branches and settled down to wait.

Meanwhile, Zelimhan felt his knees buckling beneath him. He looked around at the men beside him. They were dressed in ragged clothing, drenched in mud from their long journey. Many were swaying, struggling to stay upright. For what seemed like hours, they marched in the rain through the trees until they emerged out of the forest. The Ghaske greatly outnumbered them and were already assembled before Nashetia.

Zelimhan stepped forward and greeted the leader of the opposing crowd.

“We do not carry swords nor do we want to hurt anyone. But we are ready to fight if we are not allowed to stay.” 

The leader of the Ghaske strolled forward and spit on the ground.

“What gives you the right to enter our territory?” he hissed, “You were sent out to Ingan. That’s where you belong.”

“We were born on the lands before us. This is where we belong.”

The Ghaske leader laughed and raised his sword, “You are defenceless.” Men drew their swords behind him. Abruptly, he whistled and a whipping sound of an arrow split through the air. Zelimhan backed away with a hand on his right thigh, where an arrow had just pierced through. Shortly, another arrow sent him stumbling backwards and the Ghaske leader smiled in victory. But his smirk disappeared as Abukar’s father regained his balance and raised his head. Zelimhan’s accomplices stepped forward to protect him from another blow, but he raised his hand, ordering them not to advance. 

Nearby, Abukar moved from his hiding place towards the Ghaske soldiers to get a clearer view of the brave man who stood his ground although more arrows shot through the air in his direction, some burying themselves in the wet mud. Unexpectedly, Abukar caught a glimpse of his face and a vortex of shock made him stagger backwards. He recognized his father. 

The irritated Ghaske man raised his fist at Zelimhan, who smiled in return.

“Give up, turn your men around, and get off my land,” he hissed, emphasizing each word, although his angry voice was etched with uncertainty. Zelimhan’s knees buckled. 

The head of the Ghaske whistled once again but no arrows followed this signal. He whirled around in fury and whistled again. The Ghaske let go of their weapons, refusing to obey his order, as Zelimhan dropped to the ground.

“Kill him!” 

The Ghaske merely shook their heads in reply.

That is when, not believing his eyes, Zelimhan saw Abukar. It was easy to recognize his son. Abukar broke away from the crowd and lowered himself next to his father. He placed his right hand over Zelimhan’s body and closed his eyes. A memory flashed before his eyes.

“Abukar I will ask you to do something for me,” Zelimhan quietly addressed the young child as the train wailed in the distance.

“Do I have to count rocks again?” Abukar asked with a sigh and looked over at a pile beside a young orphaned girl. 

Zelimhan took his son by the shoulders and looked into his eyes before answering, “Yes, Abukar. Just this one last time. You be a good boy, alright?” 

The child had whispered “one hundred” when the train took off and soon his parents faded into the distance.

Thunder echoed and green beams rose from Abukar’s fingertips, making their way towards his father’s wounds. 

Unexpectedly, Zelimhan caught Abukar’s wrist and, with great effort, pulled it away from himself. He lowered his son’s hand on the damp ground and let the beams twist their way downwards, disappearing. 

As the sparks at his fingertips went out, Zelimhan’s eyes closed and, slowly, one-by-one, everyone bowed before him. Abukar, fighting back his sorrow, raised his head and gazed over the Nashetians, their lungs filling with the familiar air that they had been deprived of for years.

Murad finished speaking and watched his son approach the side of the rail tracks that led to Ingan. Rashid kneeled down and placed his palm on the ground before him. He thought of Nashetians, men and women that were imprisoned in foreign lands, proudly lifting their heads before the Ghaske and watched small beams carve their way towards his hand from the soil beneath it. Before letting go of the light threads and heading home, he whispered, “We are one.” 

 Left

  Left. The word appeared in the fog like a ghost moving through thick, moist air. 
I struggled to breathe. I could hear her voice screaming in my head. No, we’re
supposed to turn right! Drops of hot rain fell in slow motion and burnt my skin,
while the word now acquired a luminescent glow and curved itself into a smile.
The whistling of an oncoming train turned to roaring laughter, and I caught myself
gripping a branch that snapped in half and crumbled to bits in my hands. With this
disturbing sound of laughter and thunder still ringing in my ears,
I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling above.

I turned to my left, almost expecting some miracle to appear on my bedroom wall.
The room was dark. I thought of the recurring dream and the way it seemed to creep
into reality. Over the past few months, my left eye slowly became more alert,
the world to my left gained intrigue. I knew it was all a psychological game I had created,
yet I enjoyed it. She loved it when I chased.

          It was still dark as I dressed and walked outside, grasping the car keys
with my left hand. Snow spiraled down and landed on the ground like small white flowers
on a grave. My mind repeated one phrase. Turn left! I could almost make out footprints of heels
curving their way around the side of a building as I made my way to my car,
now a black shape covered in frost.

         The car hummed as I pressed forward, eager to catch something extraordinary,
a discovery that would bring my vivid dreams to life, and bring sense to a word that now
possessed me. She told me I was never good at directions but that I would know where to find her.
She said she would show me. The glowing line of streetlights blending with the sky bounced off
my side mirror as I gripped the steering wheel with frozen fingers. Making my way through
the labyrinth of towering buildings, I anxiously inspected oblivious strangers, unfamiliar cars,
and cracked walls at each left turn. Turn left! The cold wind crawled its way through
a slit in an open window as I accelerated on the highway.  

I saw it coming in the distance, picturing sparks flying off rail tracks and the slow movement
of hot steam cutting through the thick, icy air. Its glowing lights ricocheted against streetlights,
 roads, and car wheels, and slowly curved into a smile. Her smile. It was a train.
I remembered her screaming beside me. You’ll get us killed! Stop, don’t touch the wheel!
Gripping the steering wheel, I felt my heart accelerate with the movement of my speeding
car and the flying train swiftly making its way towards me. She smiled when I held her.
She was still smiling when they carried her away. With the thundering sound of wailing cars
blended with my joyful laughter, I sharply turned the steering wheel to the left
and met the blinding lights with triumph. 

 Coward

    He was a coward. Lights dimmed, windows shut, curtains closed. His palms pointed outwards, drenched in blood. A mix of guilt and imagination. Across the room, a fragile frame lay outstretched on a bed, surrounded by bed covers leaping over the edge in suicidal falls, the floor catching them in the darkness. He looked over his shoulder and, with a stare that shot through the air like a bullet, watched her slow breathing. The only sign of life aside from his heart beating against his chest. Let me out, it screamed, I don't belong here. A door to his left. A phone on the table. Her life in his hands.

                                                                                                                                                  . . .

  He walked across the office, his desk welcoming him like a noble king, with light rays streaming through the open window of the tenth floor and landing on the cushioned seat, a perfect halo. His world, his kingdom. The smell of papers soothingly settled down in his lungs as he placed himself behind a desk and got to work. The shuffling of papers, the quiet knocking on the door, the secretary peeking her blonde head and announcing unfamiliar names of incoming visitors as computer keys stomped away in rhythm, his pen cutting the air in swift motions, all grew and subsided into a controlled, passionate orchestral performance. He gloated, a conductor at his throne.

  Hey, honey. It’s six already, please come home soon. Love you. His wife’s voice echoed, pushing its weight on the walls, slipping into the corners of his mind. The last footsteps of an employee walking away, followed by the gentle sound of a closing door slowly faded and blended into the mélange of zooming cars and dripping rain. One more paper. Just one more. His hand reached towards the pile and stopped in midair. A piercing scream cut through the air, bolted through the open window, and twisted itself around his neck. One second passed before it slowly sank down his arm, weighing down his hand onto the cold table. Deafening silence filled the air once again.

  He gradually rose from his chair and walked towards the window. With an alert, penetrating gaze, his eyes wondered over a perfect harmony of blinking lights as cars filled with strangers rode across the wet pavements, turning the world from green to red, driving past towering giants, an array of buildings consumed by moving shadows and quiet whispers. A painting of life. Strokes of fear and secrecy. As his gaze shifted towards the entrance of his building, another earsplitting scream rose from two silhouettes below, hovering in the air. A female slowly fell to the floor; a revolting figure towering over her and leaping forward making her send another burst of agony between the giants above her. The sound grasped, stabbed, tore, suffocated. Standing in the darkness, scanning the world for a sign of authority, for the turning wheels and flashing lights, for footsteps that would send the beast staggering away. A door to his left. A phone on the table. Her life in his hands.

  Where are they? The woman below screamed. His heart beat against his chest. The moving shadows behind walls, distracting. His eyes quickly jumped from window to window, counting, like strokes over broken guitar strings, his fingers curling into a fist, closing the space no longer occupied by his pen. Shaking, he turned off the light in his room, darkness consuming, invisibility protecting him like a veil, a safety harness holding him back as he leaped forward into the darkness like a hawk watching its prey below. Shadows moved, whispered, cried out within. Irony laughed and turned its bitter gaze from one to another. He knew a phone was in their hands, three keys dialed with trembling hands, leading to an end of this nightmare. The screams slowly died away, a slow breath of relief followed by fear. Lights nowhere in sight, the prey has fallen. The beast has fled. 

  Mouth open in disbelief. Pulse racing after the fading figure. Pursuing, turning, beating for every scream. He slipped out of his office, rushing forward in misery towards the stairs, each foot stepping down in a constant rhythm, pinning the culprit against the wall, behind ice bars where he belongs. Every step echoed against the walls, every sound marking his descent, his mind capturing each motion with the image of a clock ticking on the wall, the second hand shifting clockwise towards a sudden end of the woman fading away on the concrete floor. He crushed these thoughts away, wincing, shaking his head, and rushing down the spiraling stairs with the quiet race, his speeding heart, and his footsteps, all leading to the back door.

                                                                                                                                                  . . .

  He was a coward. Between the dim lights, the soft covers of the bed sheets against his rough jeans covered in red stains, and the slow movement of the second hand, he made a choice. A door to his left. A phone on the table. Her life in his hands. He battled questions, watching greed slip through the key hole, grasping the dear affections of his wife, fear capturing his mind and sinking in like a hopeless ship dropping into the depths below. He made a choice. He killed a man. She will embrace a figure with love, stroking his back as the vision of a blurred face will transform into piercing eyes of a killer, a liar, a coward afraid of facing her resentment. He killed a man; she will not know. Turning the hands of a clock, he broke apart his world piece by piece, slowly ridding of a memory, which once gone with the rising rays of light, will no longer exist.

Read His Soul
(Published in "Young Voices 2010" Magazine)

    A diary is a private world. A world of words written on paper, flowing from the mind and transformed into lines of ink. Each curve, each letter telling a story of a life, a story of someone’s life, or perhaps a story where two lives collide. It’s a history of ideas, challenges, love, peace, hope, memories, anything, and everything. Writing in a diary is placing a share of you onto paper. A piece of you between joined thin pages. Letting someone read your journal is like letting them enter your thoughts. That day, he let me read his diary. That day, he let me read his soul.
    Surprise is a strange thing. I knew he kept a diary, yet he promised I’ll see it when “the time is right”. Oh, the thirst for knowing seeped through to my core. The subtle anticipation for the day I could see the world through his eyes carried on for months, slowly growing in the back of my mind. No, I was not wishing to see extraordinary secrets from his past or astounding facts. My curiosity lay in knowing his perception of the world, knowing him. Not as I see him through my eyes, through the layers he puts on in front of me. I realized everyone wears a shell, changing it adapting to the outside like a chameleon. I feared the “he” that I saw before my eyes was nowhere near reality.
    The right time did come. He silently placed the diary into my hands and walked away. What do you do when a person hands you the story of their life? I believed I’d snatch the book and split it open along its fragile frame, and, at the speed of light, take in its contents. I imagined moving my eyes along the lines of the handwriting I know so well. I played the scene over in my head repeatedly, each version leaving off with the image of blank pages. Now, I had the end of my incomplete visions. The chance to finally fill the blank holes in my mind. Isn’t that what I was waiting for this whole time? Isn’t that what I wanted all along? Maybe I got it all wrong.
    I studied the cover, running my fingers along the ridged sides in hesitation. Stalling time. Hours passed before I pressed my cold fingers against the cover and entered his private world. It is a strange feeling to read a diary. I’ve entered the world of a stranger, since what were we if not strangers? No one can truly know the thoughts of another, and I was certainly not a mind reader. There I sat, a part of him in a way, reading his opinions, views of the world, his memories of life, school, love, loss, and me. I stopped reading with uncertainty. No names were written down yet the subtle undertone grew stronger along his scattered entries. That was the last thing I expected and the last thing I wanted to see. Bit by bit, I could see his decisions unraveling before my eyes. His written lines were the contrary of the words I’ve heard clearly spoken through his lips. I felt the sudden feeling of my heart sinking as the vision of his written lines blurred before my eyes. To this day, I remember the overwhelming feeling of being fooled. I believed I knew him, yet I never did. This plummeting sensation made me shut the book and look away.
    Maybe we were just strangers. Or maybe I got him all wrong. Yet, he knew, he knew what I’d feel as I stepped into his private world. I returned the small part of him while he was asleep the next morning. Carefully, moving across the room, I placed the diary onto his bedside table and glanced at his closed eyelids. At that moment, I wished my eyes were closed so I wouldn’t see him before me. He was no longer surrounded by layers of disguise. I could see right through him, and I realized some things are not worth knowing.
    We never spoke of that day and maybe we never will. It passed by like a silent wave and I moved away shortly after. Maybe he regretted writing those words or maybe he didn’t remember. Maybe he noticed the diary resting beside him and thought it was all a dream. Though I filled the holes of knowledge I yearned for, I felt that in a strange way, too intricate for me to understand, I lost him. And I knew that the emptiness that came with this realization was deeper than any hole a diary could fill. But, who knows. Maybe I got it all wrong.

Nostalgia

Profiles
He glanced at the application forms before him and sighed. Another year, another pack of thousands of applications, another struggle to find the right candidates to work in his office. He swept his eyes over the piles before him and carefully spread the sheets apart. Quickly, he grabbed crumpled, stained, and torn papers and threw them aside. What a waste of time, he thought. If they aren’t willing to spend enough time to make these look neat, why should I, a figure of high authority, even look at them? He snorted out loud and resumed the search. He urgently pushed up his glasses that were slowly making their way to the tip of his crooked nose. A small bead of sweat rolled down his forehead and landed with a soft thud on the table. As he wiped the drop away, the phone rang.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Collens, Barbara is here to see you. Should I let her in?”
“Oh, yes, yes. Instantly.”
“Yes, sir. She’s coming up.” James put the phone back in its place.
“Barbara here. Barbara there. What does that old bore want from me this time. James, you didn’t sign that paper. James, you didn’t send out the application form to that company. James, I’m the boss so I talk, you listen. James this. James that. I’m James Collens. Can't she get that through her empty...”
An urgent knock interrupted his mumbling. James straightened his tie, fixed his sleeves, tightened his belt, and threw on his jacket in mere seconds. Gliding past a wall mirror, he pressed the sides of his mouth apart with his pinkies and glanced at his awkward grinning expression.
“Oh, it’ll do.”
James swung the door open and cried out in delight, “Barbara! How nice of you to drop by! I was beginning to miss you, can you imagine that?”
A short, plump woman dragged her heels into the office and fixed her dark-green petticoat.
“James, quit it,” she snarled in return, “And take that smile off your face. It makes you look pathetic.”
She walked over to his table and her eyes scanned the scattered forms.
“I heard you didn’t find a new assistant yet?” she raised her eyebrow and turned to him with a piercing glare.
“I was on it right when you arrived. Isn’t that ironic?” His grin was hopelessly locked in place as he fumbled with his hands behind his back.
“James, it’s been a month since I asked you to get an assistant. A month! While you sit here and warm up your chair, I wreck my manicure by typing thousands of reminders out to you with no replies!”
“I was intending to answer the…”
“Enough,” she snapped, “You’re useless. I don’t see a single reason for me not to fire you.”
“No, no,” his voice trembled and he ran to his desk, “Look, I eliminated all the useless applications and narrowed it down to twenty people. If you give me just…”
“Oh, shut up, would you?” she walked over to his desk and opened an internet browser, “I’ll show you how it’s done.”
Letter by letter, she typed “www.facebook.com” into the address bar.
“Barbara?” James said.
“Give me those forms,” she stretched her palm out and he handed over the remaining applications. Barbara entered the name of one of the applicants into the search bar. A profile picture of a young man appeared on the screen.
“What do you see?” Barbara said.
“A guy at a club.”
“Exactly.” She threw the application form away and James watched it land in the trash bin in awe. Barbara typed in a second name. Another image popped up, now of a teenage female girl holding a medal.
“That one looks promising,” James said.
“Hmm…” Barbara scrolled through the girl’s profile and pursed her lips in disapproval, “Offensive language on every line.” With that, she threw the paper away, followed by many others. With two papers remaining in her hands, she dropped them on the table.
“That’s how you get things done in this world nowadays.” With that, she lifted her chin and left the office.

His Eyes
I felt the crimson seat of the subway under me and smelled a blend of alcohol and strong perfume, combined in a strange mix that made me want to choke. I watched a baby wave to me from the parallel row. I tasted the bitterness of gum in my mouth as the mint soared through my throat. The drum beat filling my ears, I listened to the striking melody. Suddenly, I looked up to see an old man. He sat down beside me, not noticing that the seat was occupied by my handbag. I imagined the screen of my cell phone crack under him. His companion, probably his wife, whispered angrily, “Not on the girl’s bag!” I mumbled, “It’s alright” as he slowly moved his trembling hand and placed my handbag into my lap. I was surprised his fragile fingers withstood its weight. He managed to place it on my lap and looked at my face. As he did so, I stared back. His eyes were wide and full of wisdom. They were not focused and I wondered whether he saw a blurred form instead of me. I could see all his flaws. Every wrinkle, every freckle, every strand of gray hair. Yet, I felt exposed. I looked down at my hands, smooth and soft. Slender. The worst they've been through was washing the dishes. His were full of dents, creases and scars. They were harsh and rough. I wondered where he received each mark. Each line is an owner of its own story. Although I could see everything in great detail, I knew he could see clearer, sharper, farther in a way I couldn't understand.
"Arriving at St. Patrick. St. Patrick station."
He turned and looked ahead while I stumbled out of my seat and glanced at him for the last time. As I looked up at the end of the escalator, I knew his eyes would be etched into my memory for the rest of my life. 

Torn to Shreds
     He was nervous. I could tell by the way he glanced sideways although the room was empty. We were standing in his living room. I ran my hand through my silky hair. He twisted a newspaper, which was struggling to let go of his firm grip, into a tight spiral. I bit my lip. He looked different. While he carried the same calm expression I clearly remembered, he was on edge. But so was I.
He tore the paper in his hands to bits and I studied his face. There was still that way he stood that took my breath away. The simple things I noticed and wished I didn’t once the red pigments rushed to my pale face. I was seventeen. He was nineteen.
“So,” he whispered it but it was enough for me to hear. I felt the word float in the air between us but I was afraid to send more words flying. Getting enough courage, I whispered back, “Why did you do it?”
I said more than I intended but my thirst for answers took over. I needed to know. Now with him standing within arms reach, I needed to know more than I ever did before.
At once, he looked up. Our eyes met and I felt adrenaline rush through my veins. He knew he had this effect on me but I was too distracted to care. It seemed as if his eyes were looking past me, thinking. Just as sudden, he looked back down and dropped to his knees. The newspaper pieces scattered away from him. He lowered his head. Only one piece of paper remained undamaged.
“I can’t…” he paused, “I can’t take it anymore. This is killing me.”
These words poured out of his mouth and seeped into the air between us, silence swallowing them in large gulps.
My leg twitched, ready to step forward and hug him. This act would have been natural. Something we used to do all the time. But this once, I hesitated and remained standing in isolation. I felt hollow and alone.
My mouth burned for more. I imagined my curiosity creeping its way through my mind, reaching my nerves.
“Why didn’t you tell me? I thought you loved me.”
He was now shaking as these words hit him in one strike.. He looked down at his hands as if blaming them, burning his guilt. I could see the words still floating between us. Why didn’t you tell me? I thought you loved me.
He shrank lower to the ground.
“I loved,” his voice was coarse and he was still staring numbly at his hands, “I loved and I lost. It was my entire fault. I shouldn’t have listened to that gang. I shouldn’t have joined.”
It was too much. Remembering this once again. Having him whisper how much he cared about me. Watching him suffer from regret. I couldn’t take it so I stepped forward and wrapped my hand around him. He didn’t look up and we sat in silence.
In the distance, I could hear sirens wailing. I hugged him tighter.
“You know I always loved you. I still loved you.”
His hands trembled harder and he pressed his lips together. Still regretting. Remembering. He knew he lost my trust and we both knew I wasn’t coming back. My words floated upwards to join the mass and the silence spell was broken. The sirens getting louder. The police cars getting closer. The tension getting stronger.
He reached into his pocket and got out a necklace he gave me when we were still together. I held out my hand and traced the outline of it, barely touching. His tears ran down the slender object and landed on the remaining page of the newspaper. The sirens were now outside the house. I could hear an officer calling him out. I leaned away and looked at him in fear. But I did not feel anything anymore. I was afraid, yet my hands were not shaking.
He sighed and kissed the necklace before slowly lowering it to the floor.
“I love you, Valerie,” he whispered and walked out.
I listened to the shutting of doors and the screech of tires as they took him away. I leaned towards the necklace and pressed the cold surface towards my cheek.
“I love you too,” I whispered back. Leaving the necklace on the cold floor, I stepped out of the house.
The newspaper shreds silently swayed from side to side by the breeze from an open window. Tears were soaked through the ink but one could make out some words etched into the remaining slender paper.

August 5th, 12:15am, a body of a…
                 …young teenage girl was found…               
 …Valerie Knight was…       
                      …a loose bullet hit the wrong target...
… relationship with the leader……………
…………………………….…..…          …Valerie was unaware…           
…led to a brawl in the………......      ………………………..  
        .…not the first time gang violence…  

..innocent girl……………………….
                        
                               …she will never be forgotten.
 

Defining Me

Your Yesterday, My Tomorrow

I wrapped my hands around myself and felt the bitter wind soar by, teasing. Soon, the last leaf fell from a cold, lonely tree leaving it shivering in the bare moonlight. Swirling through the humid air and peacefully landing on the ground. I watched it gently descend, the wind guiding it away. It fell and soon it will be gone, I thought. Emptiness when I’m back tomorrow. But that’s if I have enough courage to return.
I did. The next day, tracing the faded footsteps in the ground, chasing the shadows of long familiar paths, I reached the tree and looked down. Just as I thought, it was gone. And so was she. My great-grandmother passed away two days ago. This is where we used to sit, light-hearted and carefree. Other leaves rustled in the wind, calming me down. But they’re not the same.
What if yesterday was back? What if I could watch the leaf fall once again? Maybe, if I was careful, I’d have time to catch it. But yesterday is the past. This is tomorrow. And another will come.
Trembling, I closed my eyes. I thought back to yesterday seven years ago. That day, back when I was ten years old, she looked down and smiled at me. I laughed and hid a flower in the sand. It was for her but she pretended not to see me. Caught up in childish games, the flower was forgotten. The next day, I remembered but the flower was already gone. I began to cry. What if I had given the flower to her? What if I told her how much I loved her before it was too late? Regrets, regrets, regrets
That day, she took my hand in hers and brought me to this tree. In silence, we watched the leaves slowly fall until only one remained. Soon, it dropped on the ground and, without speaking a word or explaining, we left the forest. When fall arrived, we went back to watch them grow. You can’t bring back yesterday, she said, but there’s always tomorrow. That day, what if told her how much she meant to me? What if I held her hand and told her I didn’t want to let go? But I didn’t.
The sound of the wind brought me back to reality. Sudden warmth enveloped me and I was no longer shaking from the cold. You can’t bring back yesterday, but there’s always tomorrow. Her words echoed through my head. Unexpectedly, I understood.
“What if..?” I stop myself from ending the question. Suddenly, it didn’t matter anymore. I was ready to let go and this is what she wanted all along. I smiled and leaned down to lift a flower from the ground. When time’s right I’ll return to this very tree and watch more flowers bloom. Many leaves would fall but it wouldn’t matter. I know that sooner or later, they’ll return.
 

Her Name Was Sara

    “Once again, what is your name?” the teacher repeated and raised her eyebrows. The class of ten remained silent as they stared at the new student.
    “Ryan... My name’s Ryan.”
    “Well hello ‘Ryanmynamesryan’”
    The class snickered. Ryan looked down at his feet.
    “Welcome to the one and only grade 11 class at the Birkins Secondary School.”
    Everyone stared. Ryan wasn’t too sure whether their smiles were in mockery or not. A blonde saw him looking and whispered to her friend. They laughed.
    Ryan felt a tingle of foolishness. As the bell rang, the blonde girl was the last to leave the classroom.
    “I would check the zipper if I were you,” she laughed and Ryan was glad she left before his face flushed to deep crimson.

    The cafeteria was filled with students, some scrambling to get their work done, some trying to squeeze through the long line for food.
    Ryan sat down at an empty table and dropped his backpack on a nearby chair. That was when he saw her. Same light hair, wide smile. She was sitting at what he assumed the “popular table” It was so calming, just sitting there, and not having to do anything. For a second, he pretended he was invisible. Closing his eyes, he thought back to what used to be his home. A knock interrupted his thoughts.
    “Yo,” a wide-shouldered boy was knocking his tray on the table occupied by Ryan, “Move, and I won’t repeat myself.”
    Ryan picked up his backpack without a word. He was too tired to reply and was in no mood for a fight. He was sure he could tackle that boy in no time, but did not want to encounter any problems.
    The end of the day arrived and Ryan’s teacher showed him to his locker.
    “This will be your spot for the year. No writing. Abuse of school property leads to detention. Have a good day Ryan. And I heard about your parents, I’m extremely sorry. Having your parents leave you at such a young age must be devastating. Your aunt is a wonderful lady and if anything, you can always ask me for help.“
    She walked away and he listened intently to the tapping of her heels until they faded away. The hall was filled with silence and Ryan could’ve sworn he heard his tear drop on the floor with a soft thud. He doesn’t cry. This was the first and he was ashamed, vigorously wiping the tears away.
     A soft noise made Ryan freeze.
    “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” He turned to see the blonde girl shifting from one foot to the other. “Are you alright?”
    “Yeah,” he replied and began assembling his books neatly into the locker. He decided they were stacked too neatly and casually threw a crumpled piece of paper on the bottom shelf. Ryan knew she was still there. The sweet scent of her perfume reached him. For some reason, the sweetness didn’t irritate him, as it usually would have.
    He turned, “Look, if you’re here to give me fake smiles and tell me how great this school is and how you can show me around just to brag about it to your friends later, you can kindly leave.”
    She looked taken aback for a second but remained standing. Ryan felt awkward. He was expecting a rude remark or at least a snappy comeback, but she just stood there without a word. He turned back to his locker and struggled to zip up his backpack. As if on purpose, the zipper broke and its contents stumbled to the floor.
    The girl leaned down and grabbed one paper. Ryan snatched it back,
    “What do you want? I’ve seen the people you chill with. You don’t hang with people like me. I told you, if this is your way of fun, you can find it somewhere else. Stay out of my way.”
    Her shoulders tensed and she spoke.
    “The people you chill with.” She quoted him slowly, placing emphasis on each word, “That could be a way of saying it. Or it could be...talking to people who drag you into their crowd and expect you to live up to their standards.”
    “It’s not like you don’t have a choice. Quit it.” He got up and gave her a strange look. “Have fun telling all your friends how rude and pessimistic I am.” He walked off, making sure to take long steps. He knew she might be watching.

    Ryan was late to class the next day. The rain was pouring down. He did not have an umbrella, nor could he afford a ride on the bus every day. Stains covered his jeans and drops stained the floor as he walked into the classroom. Laughter. The teacher glanced at him and pointed to a desk. He sat.
    “Welcome everyone. Since we are all finally here and time was limited yesterday, I would like to start off with introducing ourselves.”
One by one, the students spoke their name, hobbies and favourites. It did not take long for Ryan’s turn to arrive.
     “Since we know your name already, Ryan, name your hobbies and a few of your favourite things.”
He felt everyone’s gaze on him.
“I...” he paused, “I enjoy watching the sunset.”
More laughter. He continued. “I like reading and playing soccer.” With that, he sat down and looked at the next person. The blonde girl stood up.
“Um...I have many hobbies and favourites but I would have to say writing and fishing are the best”
The teacher smiled, “And your name, darling?”
“Sara.”
Ryan flinched and was glad the bell rang.

As he scanned the lunchroom, Ryan searched for an empty spot. A few chairs were not occupied but they were at the “prohibited” tables. He sighed and placed his tray back. Another day without lunch was becoming a habit. He walked back into the hallway and began to wander around until he found a quiet spot under a flight of stairs.  He sat down on the floor and got out a book. The time flew by and he struggled to keep his eyes open.
“Ryan....” she was tapping him lightly on the shoulder. “Wake up”
He opened his eyes and saw Sara standing over him. Her cheeks were red and she was out of breath.
“What time is it?” He struggled upright and rubbed his eyes. “How’d you know I’m here?”
“School janitor. He saw you when he was sweeping the floors.” She smiled.
“Man...I fell asleep?” he groaned.  It was 6 pm already. “What are you still doing here?”
“I take dance classes every Tuesday at the Gym. We just finished.”
She sat down next to him and placed her chin on her knees. Ryan felt a light breeze seep through a window and noticed her lips were a slight shade of blue. He looked over awkwardly and picked up his book from the floor.
“Can I see?” she whispered. Ryan hesitated but placed the book into her outstretched hand. The cover displayed a sunset in bright, warm colours. She looked up curiously.
“It’s a picture book” she said.
“Yeah, congrats on stating the obvious,” he replied sarcastically but her gaze didn’t let go. “I... It’s kind of cheesy.”
“I wanna know.”
He paused, “Well, I used to go to the beach with my father. He would always say sunsets are miracles. If you miss one, you’re missing out on a whole world that’s gone by and will never return. It marks the end of each day. We never appreciate it,” he paused and smiled. “I told you it’s cheesy.”
He listened to her laughter and didn’t remember the last time he laughed himself. Those days seemed very far away.
“I don’t know why I told you,” Ryan spoke, “You probably don’t care.”
“Probably,” she replied, “My mom used to say the same thing about books.”
“Used to?”
“She died when I was 6.”
Ryan looked up in disbelief. The same girl that laughs and brings a smile to everyone in the school lost her mom when she was young? Can’t be. He raised his hand and touched her cheek. It was extremely cold and she turned her head away.
“I’m sorry.” Was all he could say.
“I’m happy to have my dad around.” Sara looked back at the book and placed it gently on top of his backpack. “See you tomorrow.”

Ryan came into class late once more. This time, he wasn’t soaking wet or drenched in mud. But to him, it made no difference. Each day, he still felt as if he was carrying weight, worse than being covered in layers of dirt. The teacher handed him the new seating plan and he searched for his name. He found it right next to a rectangle with the label, “Sara”.
He found the right spot at the back of the class and took a seat. She didn’t look up. Her friend was sitting two rows ahead and made a face at Ryan.
Weeks were flying by and each day Ryan was anxious to see Sara. They did not speak. She would smile and leave the classroom without a word. He did not attempt to start a conversation. The silence was good enough. Ryan knew everyone was waiting for him to “try to fit in” and avoided this at all costs. He didn’t want to approach anyone.
The bell rang and the teacher placed papers down on the desk rows. When it arrived at Ryan’s row, Sara reached for the papers just as he did and the stack landed on the floor with a loud bang.
The teacher looked up, “Is there a problem at the back?”
Everyone turned and Sara’s friend laughed at Ryan as he got up to pick up the pile.
“Sara, watch out. Who knew he’s a ‘slop’ too?” Laughter filled the room and Sara smiled. Ryan controlled his anger and embarrassment. She was just like the rest of them.
One day, five minutes before class ended, Sara carefully ripped a sheet from her binder, scribbled something on it and gently slid it across the table. Ryan glanced at it, “Playground, 9 pm”. After weeks of being at the school, he knew the group she hung out with weren’t the type to deal with anyone else but themselves. But as she drifted from the classroom, he was anxious to find out what this strange girl wanted.

    The swings squeaked from the wind and clouds gathered. Ryan tapped the ground with his foot. She came as silently as before. High ponytail, white t-shirt, jeans, pale skin. She sat down on one of the swings and he lowered himself on a nearby bench. Close to him, stood a large fountain, and he watched the water pour down its sides with a soft murmur.
    “What is this about?” He asked and looked down.
Ryan could see her looking at him from the corner of his eye. She shivered from the cold and spoke softly.
    “First off, your head is probably filled with possibilities of why I brought you here. You’re wondering what I tell my friends about you,” she smiled and continued. “You see who they are and you think that I can’t possibly want to have anything to do with you. And you believe you’re smart for avoiding everyone at school because you think, that way, you don’t give anyone the satisfaction of making fun of you.”
    Ryan didn’t speak. He wanted to reply but what she said was so precise, he could not think of a comeback on time. She coughed and spoke again.
    “After your parents divorced and left you, you believe the whole world did too.”
    Ryan looked up in shock. “How did... Where did... Who told you about my parents?”
    Sara looked away at a nearby tree, “I help the office with papers. Your file had to be arranged. I’m sorry if you didn’t want anyone knowing but that was a long time ago.”
    “You know nothing about me, or my life.” Ryan snapped back in rage. Suddenly, he felt angry and clutched his fists. “You have a perfect life so stop pretending you care about mine.”
    Ryan wanted to get up and leave but Sara approached and stood over him. Slowly, she lowered herself until her face was in level with his.
    “And lastly, you didn’t consider even once that I do care and these months have taught me a lot about you. You’re too caught up in your past and I think it’s time you let it go.”
    He looked up and for the first time, he did not look away from Sara’s gaze. The wind carried her sweet scent as she leaned down and lightly kissed him. Then she took a step back and held out her hand. Ryan reached forward and took it. It was tremendously cold and Ryan’s hand felt numb, but he hadn’t felt this warm and secure for as long as he could remember.

    Each day, Ryan would wait for Sara on the same bench. No one knew. Not that it mattered if they did. He made friends at school but couldn’t share this with them either. Ryan could wait for hours just to see her and they would talk about books, music, school, friends but never about their families.
    Sara took a rock from the ground and carved her initials into a tree. The sun was beginning to set and an orange glow lit up the playground.
    “Ryan, you seem a lot happier than when I met you.  Are you really?”
    He took the rock from her cold hands and drew his initials beside hers.
    “Yes, I am. When you’re around.”
     “What if...” she sighed and paused, “What if I won’t be around? Are you going to go back to the way you were?”
    Ryan dropped the rock. “I never thought about it. You will be around so I’d rather not think about that.”
    She laughed and gave him a wide smile. “Yes, but can you promise me something?”
    He smiled back, “Sure.”
    “Promise me you’ll stay this way no matter what. Laughing, being cheerful. Promise?”
    Ryan laughed again, “Alright, Sara. I promise.”

The next day, Ryan, once again, waited in the playground and couldn’t wait to see her approaching silhouette. He smiled.
He listened to the ticking of his watch. Five minutes. Ten minutes. Fifteen. Thirty. It was starting to get darker.
He waited for four hours. That day, the sunset was as beautiful as ever.

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Ryan sat at the bench in the playground of the Birkins Secondary School and breathed in the fresh air.
“Sara, don’t come near that fountain! The water’s cold.”
The young girl laughed and fixed her pigtails, “Alright, grandfather.” She walked back to the bench and Ryan patted her on the head.
“I like it here, is this where you met that girl who had that heart disease?” she asked and got out a lollypop.
“Yes,” he sighed, “Her name was Sara.”
He stood up and, with his granddaughter, approached the tree he remembered so clearly. Leaning down, Ryan lifted a rock and slowly carved an “S” into the tree before lifting the little girl up to take a look. She smiled and placed her tiny hand on a branch as the sun set over the horizon.