He came on a Tuesday.
I'd never seen a sight such as this,
A face like his,
And his eyes...
They said so much, yet he spoke so little.
He knew the end was near, I could see it in those eyes of his.
Perhaps that was why he wouldn't talk.
If he opened his mouth, he may not be able to control his emotions.
The tears might come, and the screams, and the sobs.
So he remained quiet.
Quiet for friends, quiet for family, quiet for teachers, and doctors, and nurses, and SILENT for those in black who'd come to mourn him.
To mourn those not yet lost feels wrong to me.
I think that's why it was I with whom he chose to talk.
I would sit at his bedside, and hold his hand.
And tell him that he's human, that he's alive, that he isn't fragile or breakable
But maybe the latter is the effect of already being broken...
Curious, how he seemed to shut out everyone else, but
He was almost desperate for my attention.
Or he would have been, if need be.
But I gave it willingly, with all my heart.
He sought only peace.
I knew that, and
I'd like to think that it was I who helped him get it.
He left on a Sunday.
I'll never know which one, for they'd all blended together since the First Tuesday.
It happened at night, just as the clock in the hall struck midnight.
And no one was there with him
No one but me.
I think we both wanted it that way.
Before his departure, he asked only one thing
That which I could never deny him:
A kiss goodbye
For the sake of those who loved him,
For myself and my heart, my soul, my spirit.
And as our lips touched
For the First and Last time,
We were Gone.
YOU ARE READING
A Strikingly Aberrant Story
Short StoryI've never written anything like this before... I feel that this is a story that does not require a summary. All you need do is read it, and you will understand. It's an original short story (and by short, I mean very short) with an odd sort of fee...
