Never Let Me Go

Found

It was the middle of July, 

and it was earlier that I had anticipated,

for the sun to paint the sky orange.

I climbed up to the attic, 

sweeping my feet as I went,

creating craters in the dust.

When I was younger,

I spent days,

hours,

weeks,

carefully writing my name in the dust.

I traced each letter to perfection,

for my brain would not let me do otherwise.

Like a child would,

I grew impatient.

I threw fits up in that attic,

alone and scared,

alone and stupid,

alone and obsessive,

alone. 

I shook the thought out of my head, and continued to walk up to the stained glass window. I could barely make out the detailing of my neighbor's house through the faded pink color. I smiled at the cheerfully painted house, the spring yellow complimenting the orange streaked sky. I shuffled my feet sideways to the left, facing an alcove with a broad gothic window placed in the middle. I opened the window, climbing onto the shabby balcony my mother had insisted on attaching. I felt a shiver go up and down my spine, as the balcony creaked under the weight of my body. I clutched my stomach and closed my eyes, my apparently indigested lunch turning as the wind blew through my hair. I held on to the balcony, as I brought my feet lower onto a scarily unstable ladder. Light as a feather, I placed my feet one after the other on each step. As I reached the end, I jumped onto the sharp edges of the freshly cut grass. 

I meandered to the shed, easily opening the door as it was always unlocked. Ever since I met him, the shed was unlocked; ever since I met him, the shed had to be unlocked. I grabbed my bicycle by its smooth handlebars, and spastically dragged it out from inside the shed. As an old habit, I cautiously looked around to make sure nobody had seen me. Clearly, nobody was interested in what I've been up to in the past couple of months, or at least I didn't think so. Satisfied with my surveillance, I took my bike around my backyard, and mounted the saddle as I closed the back gate. I peddled through every street crack, past neighbors lazily waving hello. I never waved back, and I never looked back.

I don't know what gave me the motivation to peddle. Every year in the middle of July, orange and yellow Daffodils would grow in every corner of every field. They would fill all empty places I could not see, and they would cover up the rugged torn grass. Every year, those daffodils would keep me sane, and they would keep me hopeful. Maybe it was the daffodils, but I can never truly know.

It was one in the afternoon. I laid in the middle of the field, an area where no daffodils grew. I couldn't bare the thought of laying on top of a daffodil, crushing its petals downwards, causing a sense of weariness and age. I lay next to the daffodils, the scent permeating through the air. I rested my left arm under my head, and took out my phone from my dress pocket. Clicking the power button on the side, I  caught a glimpse of he and I, as I had quickly typed my passcode to get past the memory. I put my music on shuffle, listening to Panic! At the Disco. I closed my eyes for a minute, listening to the Ballad of Mona Lisa. Not a single cloud in the sky this day, and not a problem in the world could disrupt me at this time.

But of course, life does not wait for people. Long after Ballad of Mona Lisa had finished, a new song came on. A song I had heard many times before, a song whose lyrics spoke about me. I don't know how I managed to continue listening, since an off-beat pounding of my heart went along with the chords played on the piano. The lyrics he sang swirling in my head, little knives in my heart. One, two, three, I had no pulse. One, two, three, I had no pulse. One, two, three, I had no pulse. As his voice grew stronger, the pounding worsened. Each breath, each run, each note, each word, each syllable, each sound, each audible moment, talking a piece of my heart as it went along. 

He loved me, and I know he did. I picked off the petals of those daffodils you see, and he caught every single petal I painfully ripped. He loved me, and I know he did. He promised he would come back in July, to see the daffodils blossom. He promised me that he would wait for me. No matter how far I was, he would always come back before the daffodils began to blossom.

He loved it when I just didn't care,

but the daffodils have blossomed,

and it is the middle of July,

and where is he?

I sat upright,

holding my phone tight.

I looked around, my heart pounding in uneven beats as I saw a grey hooded stranger. There was something familiar about his dark hazelnut eyes, something familiar. There was something about his dark mousy hair, I knew I had run my hands through it months ago. There was something familiar about his hands, his big palms and long fingers had caressed my cheeks. There was something about his smile, his white teeth glinting brighter than the sunlight, as if he truly did light up the world. I could feel his warmth, I could smell his shirt, and I could feel his eyes.

I turned around and picked up a daffodil,

it was the middle of July,

and the daffodils were blossoming,

and Shawn kept his promise.