The Promise

• Theresa Ngodinhson, Grade 9
• Short Story
• 2016

As I look back on my life, all I can find is bitter regret. It clouds every memory, weaves thick through my vision like a haze that darkens the sky. Reality hurts. It is cold and cruel with sharp edges that smear my skin with invisible scars, a curse that clings to me like a bruise. Just for a few hours, I want to feel numb with false thoughts that can feed me my daily dose of happiness. Sometimes the world seems so grey, I can’t seem to see the blue of the sky. Maybe I don’t want to. The endlessness of it makes me remember how insignificant I am in an infinity. The sun filters through the clouds like shards onto the paved ground, wrought with cracks like a code I can’t seem to decipher. A train whirrs by, far into the distance, disappearing into the thickets of hollow concrete trees. Winter brings about a brittle cold and harsh wind that makes people around me huddle up. Their whispered secrets condensing in the frost to form a small puff with each exhale. I am lucky to be immune to such weather. I feel nothing anymore.

A flash of blonde hair catches my eye. A laugh echoes bright through the air and makes the birds fly from their roosts. I turn quickly to follow the figure but there’s only sunlight illuminating the empty streets. Loneliness keeps me company in the shadows. It seems so long ago that it had been just the two of us. The promise we had made seems so childish now, a whim among the desperate cries of hundreds. I glance up at the white building. Maybe here I’ll find a purpose to remind me that I still matter. A doctor greets me gratefully, his eyes are pitying. His voice is a drone in my ear that reminds me of the chirp of song birds in my old garden. The hospital gown is the snow on my skin that filled the school yards. I rest my hand on her pale arm. The heart monitor beeps painfully slowly. Sorry I wasn’t there when you needed me, June. I clutch my hand to my chest. My heart is a fickle little thing that keeps an empty shell alive. Each beat echoes in my ear as a cruel reminder.
Outside, a bud blooms on the edge of a frail branch, trembling hesitantly in the breeze. The blur of the surgery lights melt into the gleam of the setting sun. The sky seems the same as it did five years ago. Ironic how only know do I appreciate the subtle beauty of the world. Warmth touches my skin in the dead of winter. The darkness greets me as an old friend.

Two hours later, the heart monitor stops in the surgery room.

Ten hours later, June opens her eyes to find her friend gone.

But a promise, will always be a promise. No matter which side of the sky you’re on.