Good and Evil

Memories

I haven't been here since I was only 6 years old. I stared at the worn down treehouse for a minute or so, just remembering the wonderful memories Sam and I had in that place. We had so much fun as kids. Why did I have to grow up so fast? Then the memory of losing Sam came bursting into my mind as I walked up to the tree and the rope ladder hanging down. I once again just stared, taking in the rush of memories from the first time I ever attempted to climb the rope ladder to the last time I climbed it in the past 11 years. I put my right hand on the rough, weather worn board of the rung of the rope ladder. It felt so familiar, so comforting. That is, until the bad memory of me scurrying up the ladder to try and find Sam plagued my mind. I gradually and carefully climbed the unsteady ladder with grace and swiftness. As I reached the top, I pulled up my right knee, then my left. I pretty much had to walk on my knees inside the treehouse to not bang my head on the ceiling. The small building looked so tiny compared to when I saw it last, 11 years ago. The wonderful memories of the adventures Sam and I had in this treehouse came flooding in once again, filling me with joy and untamable happiness, until the bad memory came. This memory practically paralyzed me in time. I could remember it clear as day. How the snow blanketed the ground, how it got under my coat and chilled my skin, how I could see the little white puffs of hot air come from my mouth as I breathed, and how my breaths quickened as I read the note over and over again. I could feel the little pinpricks of pain from my cold hands because I had taken my mittens off, and even though it is actually spring, I can feel the frozen wood under me and against my body as I lean on the wall for support. Finally, I feel the immense stabbing pain of a metaphorical dagger being plunged into my heart and wrenched to the side as I reread the note. As I sit there almost paralyzed, I reach behind me into my backpack pocket and pull out a very old and time-warn piece of paper; the note. I hold it in front of me and unfold it slowly and carefully, making sure not to tear it. The exact words written by my best friend become an avalanche onto me as I slowly read the note written 11 long years ago. As I carefully comprehend each letter and word in the note, I realize something I hadn't when I was six: if I never went home, if I obeyed Sam, then she would probably still be alive. I had run home that day after hearing a heart-wrenching scream come from my house. If I had just stayed put, Sam would not have waisted time writing me a note and I could have either died with her or saved both of us. This new information ripped at my mind and tore me apart. I had nothing left after reading the note a second time, tracing the half-written heart with my finger. All that I could possibly fathom was physically possible for me to do at that point was cry. I crumbled myself into a little ball and cried for over an hour before falling asleep.