[a short story about letting go, complete at 8k words ]
Wheelchair-bound and dream crushed, Esme Lance gives life one last chance, but at that, all she can do is sit back and watch Devon Zachary die.
His eyes reflected the pond below us, a vast blue and a dark blue, just beneath the depth. I knew if I tried, I could swim in his eyes and forget that my accident ever existed, that I could forget about all the swallows of tears and spits on my face ever existed. I felt alive again when I looked into Devon's eyes.
He lived even though he was bleak to a point where everything around him was empty. He tried, he tried afterall. Not like me, I'm the girl who gives up easily, I give up my hopes so easily that one might think I won't last long during a basketball match, that one might - if not for the high hopes - think that I might lose the ball any second, away from the grasp of my splayed out fingers, my palms burning, the harsh texture of the ball searing into my palm with each bounce, with each throw.
"Ciao, Esmé" Devon said those words in the best French he could, in year eight, when we were passing each other crayons of pastel colors, he said my name in a way that butter oozes onto a croissant, smooth and slippery, that if I didn't catch it in time, it would disappear completely.
"Hi, Devon" I giggled, because that's what all I could do, giggle at the way he said my name, I was too naive to think that he was only having fun.
Devon's hair was shaved close to his head, a decent buzz cut which left small hairs sticking in black soft grass. He'd said to the class that he was under therapy, that his hair was to be cut off, making him cooler in our year but that lasted for two years before Devon dropped out, his illness taking a poll.
━━
I flutter my eyes open, Dad's face blinding me in my dream. I see his half-dead face again, the skin hanging loose off his skull, his eyeballs scooped out of his eye-sockets and blood running down his cheek from the two holes which are now empty. I wake up with a jolt, my heart racing. And dry my sweaty palms, Trying to get rid of the hazy image.
I push off my blanket and it strains my broken leg. I climb into my wagon with no one's help, Jane would never help me. She'd disliked me since the accident which cost my dad his life. She'd disliked me at Dad's funeral. Her question was how I escaped that night, how I was still alive after that car crash. Metal burning against skin. My dad's screams left me paralysed.
I think I killed my dad. Jane hates me and I killed my dad.
My only dad, the person whom I'd die for. But that's not true, is it?
I'm a liar. A loathful one.
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