Short story compilation

That's what they say...

A year or two. That's what they all said. We have a year or two left! That'll surely be enough time...

That's what they say.

That's how they lie.

If we had a year or two, I'd still be dreaming, or I'd still be chasing the idea of that silly little bird in my back garden that always escaped at the last second. Like a game played amongst little children in school.

Maybe that's what all this is to them. Just a pointless game, played only by the naïve and willing. The curious and innocent. The vulnerable and the gullible. I liked to believe I wasn't any of these things, but you never quite know until it's too late. I was still young, and I believed all of this talk of salvation, these solutions that I had been blinded by.

I'm still young. Only 11 years old. But they say experiences make you mature. They say girls are more mature than boys. They say boys are rude and stuck up. They say girls are quiet and subdued. They say a lot of things. But I no longer believe all of them.

They said a year or two...

Then why was it only one, maybe two months before my happiness was torn from inside my heart, the muscle shredded as though it was paper in a drab, dull office block. Like it meant nothing to them. Maybe it didn't mean anything, and it was all a rouse, an elaborate scheme to gain their 15 minutes of fame.

They say loss leaves a stinging sensation in the shape of that which you miss. They say to never forget and hold them deep inside. Remember them, and it's almost as if they'd never left. That's what they say...

But what if forgetting would ease the ache I feel every day. Every moment of every day. The throbbing agony of a fresh wound, like I'd gashed my knee against the concrete driveway. Except only a far more violent, more drawn own, taunting version. If forgetting was the solution to ending this suffering of mine, wouldn't it be worth it? Then again, I am 11 years old. Right? And that should make it harder to forget. Right? They say trauma stays with you forever. Well, let's see if they were finally right about something.

On the 18th of December, just teetering into the week of Christmas, I'd skipped home, smiling and humming to myself. Just as 11-year-olds do. Joy overflowing into my every action, me being incapable of keeping it within myself.

I was excited to share this excitement with it. That pesky little bird. That bird that I'd held so dear for months of my life.

That bird that disappeared on the 18th.

I'd cried to mother, begging for it back. It was mine. And then it was gone.

They said that the bird would maybe die out in a year or two.

Then where had it gone?