The Transit Of Venus

• Jewellyne Bacolod, Grade 11, St Andrews College
• Short Story
• 2011

Excellence Award in the 'Step Write Up 2011' competition

I think I must've been a snail in my previous life.

It's only apt that I think so because when I look back on the years I've lived, all I see, time and time again, is a simpleton of a girl, protected by the haven of her own comfort zone. I lived life one step at a time; each second of every day, unexpecting the next.

Like a snail, I leave a trail—though not the silvery mucus-like substance that snails excrete—but a trail that proved I’d once been there. For me, snails should be fascinated upon; disregarding all the science and reason behind it, to me, it's like snails are leaving a trail of the memories and moments of their past behind them. They're always moving forward, but never forgetting the history with that connection: the perpetual string of its life stained behind if only for a while. I don't dwell on the infinitesimal logic to the rate at which a snail moves. So what if they're slow-moving creatures and three seconds of their life may be spent creeping the next millimetre or so forward? The point is, they're moving.

And I am always moving.

I was named Venus because, allegedly, when my mother was in labour, she'd hit the ground in agony, praying to the skies to let this baby—me—be delivered safely. And looking upon the glimpse of Venus that evening, her prayers were answered as the world received me.

My mum once told me that dad had promised her he'd take us all to travel the world. That was before the cancer, and inevitably death, slyly clasped its ghastly claws around my dad's soul and took his life. It was a rather large ambition and promise he made with mum. Of course, in a sense, we were travelling the world—only, without him.

It was almost imperative that we set our sights on the world's beauty amidst all the suffering and evil the world harbours. We were well off, financially, but I knew somewhere deep down, this affection for adventure had always been the best essence of dad left in mum; it was almost gift.

Everywhere we ventured, I'd always leave a part of me behind by means of a simple token; a memento. For the place that allowed me sanctuary.

"Mum?" I prodded gently as I tentatively laid my head on her chest.

"What is it, my Venus?" She murmured, half asleep with exhaustion.

"Where are we going next?" I asked; waiting for her reply that I knew would most likely be unanswered.

The corners of my mouth slightly curved upwards when I realized she'd drifted off into slumber. Undoubtedly, I knew she wouldn't—or couldn't—answer.

She was as clueless as I.