Meraki

S t o r y - 5

"Broken crayons still color."

I glanced up at the old man who had spoken. He gazed out to to the horizon, smiling serenely. A white hot flash of anger rushed through me and the words were out before I could stop them.

"I asked for help, not riddles!" Pausing, I examined his wrinkled face for any signs that I had upset him. Fortunately, no emotion betrayed him. A slow smile played at the corners of his mouth.

The old man and I stood on the edge of the shore, waves gently crashing against our feet. The salt water landing on my lips felt like the the tears that I had shed all day long.

He spoke after a few minutes. "Ah, but riddles will give you the help you need, child- even if they may seem farfetched to you."

I scoffed. "Haven't you been listening? I don't even know why I'm talking to you!" I threw my hands up and sighed heavily. "Look, I just... My mother is dead. My only family... I..." Tears slipped down my cheeks.

"You are young, child. Tragedy occurs- I should know, I have had many dear ones lost forever. However, you must be strong. Healing takes time, and patience, but it yields good results."

He had a knowing expression of sympathy as he gently set his hand on my shoulder.

"Things come, and things go. They leave behind deep craters that may be filled. It is up to you. Do you wish to fill these craters with your strength, or do you wish to submit?"

I say my words slowly. "To be strong."

"That is correct," he offered me a smile. "You may be broken, but you are full of potential. Potential that can be hope, that can be your doing, or your undoing, that is what you choose."

My hands tremble as I grasp his words. "And if... If I choose wrong?" My voice cracks with emotion. "If I make the wrong decisions?"

The old man's eyes were milky white, yet I could sense the kindness in them. "Do not think about the consequences of a wrong decision when you can think about those of a good one."

"But what if?" I pressed on. He shook his head. "It will be you affected, child. However, following your gut will make you choose correctly. Instinct is primal- it is there within you for a reason."

The quiet, wise advice swirled through my head, and I realized that he was right. I needed to follow what I believed was the better decision. I huffed out a sigh, attempting a pitiful smile. "Thank you."

Although my smile barely bordered on happy, gratitude for the old man warmed my tone.

"Good." He chuckled and touched my forehead, blessing me. "Now return to the your world, my boy. You have much to do." Surprised, I looked at him and began to ask, "What do you mean, my worl-"

WHAM!

My head hit the hard bookshelf as I raised it abruptly, and pain lanced through me, white hot. "Ouch!" I yelped, glaring at the offender while rubbing the top of my head gingerly.

Once my headache had subsided slightly, I cast a quick look at my surroundings. I had fallen asleep on my desk last night, apparently.

Last night... I scrambled to my feet and shoved the door open. "Mom!" I called, heart racing frantically. Maybe it had just been a dream, she was alive, she wasn't dead! She had to be home.

"MOM!" Voice rising in hysteria, I kicked the doors and burst through the various rooms of the house. I couldn't find her anywhere. I was utterly alone. "Mom," I said again, but I choked on the words.

She was gone. A scream tore through my larynx, up the wind pipe and out of my mouth, bloodcurdling.

When my voice began to break, I stopped crying and shut my mouth. The silence immediately settled around me, making me more aware about my situation. It didn't do me any favors.

Sitting down heavily, I buried my head in my arms. A faint metallic smell made me glance at my arm and I was shocked to see a long cut with dried blood surrounding it. When had that happened?

I vaguely remember slamming my fists on the wall and grabbing a razor. And then, nothing.

I was being pathetic.

A memory flashed by. *The old man, smiling at me as he spoke. "That is correct. You may be broken, but you are full of potential. Potential that can be hope, that can be your doing, or your undoing, that is what you choose."*

That is what you choose. And I do not want to hurt myself any further. I must go through the pain, no matter how much I'd love to end it all.

So I choose to go on with my life. I won't allow this potential to be my undoing. I have to be strong. If not for me, for my mother at least. She would hate to see me in such a fragile state.

Looking up in determination, I marched to the front door and closed my hand around the cold handle. With a huff, I opened the door, and a blast of fresh air hit me, the sunlight warm on my face.

The old man was right.

Broken crayons still colour.