Can I Not?

Insider: writing for english

"What you paintin', mister?" Those soft words are what adverted my attention from my tenacious state of focus, causing my eyes to meet another's. Though the speech and voice was a much younger sound, my eyes laid upon a girl, no later than her preteen years. Her head tilted to the side as she looked at what was in front of me; a giant painting, still in the works. "That look like a balloon!" She giggled, pointing to the primrose color. A balloon? I could've sworn it was symmetrical enough to be the sun... I sighed, looking at the girl. "It's really the sun," I responded, "Though as light as it may be, it could be a balloon against the light."
    "You do this today?" She looked back and forth between the painting and me, and I couldn't help but notice how her hands were grasped tightly around a container of some sorts.
   "In Bohemianism, yes, but I've been working on it for a month," I smiled at how her mouth gapped open but looked down at the container once again. "Say, what's that in your hand?"
   "Air, sir! Need to live, to see." Once she showed me what was in her hands, I could see air tubes that were to be rested on the ears, and inserted in the nose. I frowned a little, looking at her again, "And how old are you?"
    "One... two... two one's!" Eleven. Eleven and in the medical condition? I couldn't help but feel bad for her and her family. She must be such a miracle in this state. I studied her face as she awed over the painting again. Small spots could be seen, but nothing caught my attention more than her left eye as it drifted to the right. Her indirect vision caused her to blink and look back at me. "Does you have help? Mama get help when she make things."
   "Well, no, I do this myself..." My senses to continue couldn't be helped, "Why does you mother get help?"
    "Mama play small music on big stair!" She threw her hands up in excitement, and started to do the motions of someone playing a violin. Her posture changed as she put her hands down and tapped the air. "Dada do this with Mama," I smiled warmly, finally understanding her message.
    "Now I understand, your father is an accompanist to your mother." I looked back and pointed at the painting, "This is what I do, and I don't need someone to help me with it. If I do that, how is it originally mine and my ideas, hmm?"
   "Oohhh, that make sense! Like book! Books all different." I nodded in response, causing her to giggle again. "Me want to be books. Has a lot to read... when me can read." The sad feeling returned. Dreams of being a novelist, even having a bibliography of what to read, but not the slightest idea how to read... which would also explain the speech problem. I felt myself continuously biting my lip, daring to ask until I did. "Do you come here often?"
    "All today, seven times! Mama and Dada no stop, me come to park myself." She asserted the last part, taking a stand on the statement.
    "I'll make you a promise," I got to the ground, looking her eye to eye. "You come here and see me, and I'll teach you how to read. Do we have a deal?" My hand went as my eyes stayed on her. By the instant smile, I knew the answer. Her touch was soft and so full of life...
   Every day, she visited me with a book. I started carrying a copy of the Holy Bible, seeing how I was an infidel compared to her once she started to talk about a magical man in the sky. She told me stories of how she saw the man in her dreams, and how he was a vicarious version of me. He told her small stories like how her parents met, how I became a painter, and what her future was like.
   Her speech got better every few days, but ominous feelings came with every visit. Her lazy eye got worse, and she bruised more and more often as she started to fall easier. The books started to get too heavy, and soon she had to roll them around in an old wagon. She got paler and frailer, worrying me as she came down the road. The thoughts of "Would she make it? Would she be safe every day?" always crossed my mind.
    As the colder season came, she got sick easily. I tried to tell her to not come until it was warm enough, but she was stubborn. I carried over-the-counter medicine and tissues always, keeping a jacket with me at all times for her. I offered to have the lessons at my house, but it wasn't the same. She wanted it at the place we made the promise, always.
    One late afternoon, I finally saw her. She was hobbling down the road, barely managing to pull the wagon. As I sighed in relief, calling for her, but before the sound could come out, she fell. The last breath came out of her as she fell, and so did my world...
   After that nightmare, I was afraid. It always haunted me as the days came. One... three... eight... ten days since the last she came. I was scared, but why? I was nothing near related to her, but I still felt a giant piece of me nonexistent. I heard of nothing, and all I did was stare at the road. I didn't paint. I didn't read. I didn't turn to Him. Everything shut off since then and never returned.
   The girl was anonymous to me since I met her. I never asked for her name, and she refereed to me and Him after some time. I didn't know her name until I passed a wagon stacked with books, crosses, and yellow balloons.
    Primrose. It matched perfectly with her aura. Happy, faithful, lively. But now it wasn't the same. She wasn't a bright light in the darkness. She was the void in me now. My only light vanished forever.

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I had to do that as an assignment, and I'm proud of it so I hope you enjoyed it.