Pain

• Scarlett Parkes, Grade 7
• Short Story
• 2012

I held the paper with my finger and thumb, steeling myself in readiness for the inevitable. About to rip the paper, I hesitated. Did I really want to let go of something so dear to me? But in my heart I knew I must. The counselor I didn’t want was, unfortunately, right. I had to let go, to get rid of this letter. It was the first step to getting rid of my pain. I ripped the paper, tearing it into shreds, before flinging the pieces out into the rain. They drifted, fluttering in the wind, over the edge of the balcony and into the waiting rain. They were buffeted, thrown around and around, whirling through the sky. Further and further away they drifted, dotting the sky with white. My eyes followed their progress until the last one became no more than the tiniest speck on the horizon and it, too, faded away. I stared out into the rain, my tears mingling with the tears of the sky and for some time it seemed as if the clouds were crying just for me.

Slowly, gradually, the rain ceased, and with it went my tears. Now I was left, all alone, with a deeper sadness, one threatening to overwhelm me. Sliding to the floor, I hunched my body up, curling into to a ball as if looking smaller would make God take pity on me and take away my pain. No such luck. I didn’t think I believed in God anyway. What did it matter whether there was some giant in the sky staring down on me and criticizing my mistakes? There were too many mistakes to even bother trying to put right. So stuff that, and stuff God.