Circles

"That ourselves know not what it is," - John Donne

That ourselves know not what it is

Inter-assured of the mind,

The rose bushes in my street were in full bloom, the grass still green; the long, leafy branches still reached out over the road. It all looked the same; a remembered photograph – frozen. I reached the wooden fence lining my house, running my fingers over the points at the top of each plank; I could touch it, I could feel the rough splinters softly brushing my fingertips but when I reached the door my hand fell through and my body followed.

Inside was eerie, the house groaned, struggling to catch its breath and the curtains fluttered a small announcement of a breeze coming through an open window. I remember sitting by that window; looking out onto the chipped cobblestone path leading past the colourful daylilies and past the odd twisting branches of the hibiscus tree flaunting its vibrant red flowers. Mum planted that tree the day I came home from school with a backpack full of the tropical flowers - I’d stripped old Mrs Kelly’s tree bare. She wasn’t amused when she caught me plucking the last ones – yet an hour later we had a sapling with its roots tucked under a blanket of dirt.

To the left of the window, sitting in the same place as it always had, was an old lamp. It was once a beautiful mass of swirling colours which would fill the room with a rainbow light when turned on; but when I looked at it, there was a thin layer of dust; dirty, smothering dust. The rest of the room was the same; the deep purple lounges beginning to fade, the glass coffee table no longer clear, the television sitting blank and powerless on the wall. The place which should feel like home looked as if no one had been there, no one had touched anything and nobody cared for it. The room which was once so full of life was to me void of it.

I continued through the halls, into the kitchen. Ree, my sister, always loved the kitchen, she was constantly cooking something new and delicious, from cakes and biscuits to marinated chicken and roast lamb, sweet scents of foods would float through the house engaging the attention of anyone in the house. As soon as we trudged in the door after school, she would throw her bag down in her room and head to the kitchen to concoct some form of snack or meal, then we would sit around the table and talk about our day whilst feasting on whatever she happened to have created. Now the kitchen was empty, nothing was cooking and there were pizza boxes and McDonald’s rubbish littering the grey granite benches.

I ran up the stairs. I could hear music, soft sweet music. As I stepped onto the landing the melody got louder, teasing the air. The door to my parent’s room was open, only slightly, and the music floated through. Cautiously I stepped through the door, and I felt the wood sliding through me; denser than the air. It’s strange being... “Incorporeal”, I think that’s what it is called.

Mum was lying on the bed, tears running down her cheeks, and spread out in front of her was an array of papers and folders. There were photos of me too, some from my childhood, and others more recent from when we were camping. The papers are all official-looking, my birth certificate, doctor’s certificates and vaccination forms; at the top of the pile a letter:

Dear Mr and Mrs Summerton 31/11/2010

Due to the extensive brain damage caused by cerebral hypoxia (oxygen deprivation in the brain) of Emma Maree Summers the Frederickson Neurological Hospital request a “Termination of life support” It has been 8 months since the accident with no improvements in her condition and the likelihood of a full recovery isn’t high. We regret the need for this request but it has become necessary.

Signed

Dr C. Malone

A wave of panic arose deep inside me. “They can’t do that!!! They can’t turn off the machines! I’m right here! I’m alive!” I screamed; she didn’t hear me. I felt my frustration rising up and the papers were suddenly flying off the bed; sticking to the roof and powder blue walls.

Mum looked up towards the window. It was closed, the door was closed too. I hoped for a second that she would notice I was there but her gaze drifted to the air conditioner, old, crooked and discoloured but still in perfect working order. She thought that was the cause.

They say when you lose someone you can tell when their spirit is around. They lied.

I left the room to find Ree; I wanted her to cook again; I wanted her to smile. I didn’t want her to cry. Drifting towards her bedroom door, I felt as if I was disturbing Ree’s peace but no-one would have heard me even if I’d stomped like a dinosaur – the door was, like so many in this house, closed. In a habitual motion I reached for the doorknob and fell through. Not solid, not visible, I was irrelevant.

Ree’s room smelt musty; the furniture sat unmoved and untouched. Her recipes, which used to be pinned to the corkboard, were scattered over the floor and some of them were in tattered pieces strewn over the bare carpet. Ree wasn’t in her room though; from the state of it she hadn’t been in a long time. I stepped backwards to escape the room and smashed into the door engulfed by frustration and melancholy.

I reached out eager to touch the door again, wanting to feel the wood against my fingers only to slip through the timber. I was disappointed, I wanted to cry, the lump rising up in my throat; no one would have heard me cry but I didn’t; I just walked through the door. My feet carried me to my room. The only door in the house which was open and filled with light; the only room which ironically seemed to have life. They must have cleaned it; they must have gone in there all the time.

A figure curled up on my bed, unmistakeable with her long blonde hair and pixie-like facial features – Ree. Her eyes closed; asleep. She looked older too. Thinking back to the letter it hit me, time had passed without me. My little sister was still caught in the fluid current of time’s stream.

I sat down on the bed beside her. The sheets didn’t crumple, the bed didn’t creak and Ree’s eyes didn’t open. I reached out and stroked her hair, my fingers not moving it at all. I wondered if she could feel my fingers, or did they have no effect whatsoever? I tried again. Suddenly the world whipped out of focus then into a blurry mass of shapes and colours, compacting and fading to darkness.

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So, this is my first story on wattpad.... and I guess I'm just kinda hoping anyone who reads it could give me their opinion? Even if it is critisism.....