Night Of Memories

• Jenneh Harris, Grade 9
• Short Story
• 2015

I started dying before the snow and like the snow I continued to fall. I light-heartedly lived at ease and spent my life without a thought. I’m amazed that Death, that heinous grin, should think of me, who never thought of him. I listen for any indication that the grim reaper is trotting around the hall while I faced a tray containing nameless overcooked food that is depleted of odour and taste. I’ve started to notice the smell. It’s a deep foul stench, saturating the stale air like an old sponge. I gag and pull the sheets over my nose, breathing in the fibres. Outside, the clouds drifted across a clear blue sky. Trees whistled as they swayed gently in the sunshine breeze. The weather that overlooked my putrescent window duplicated me every thought. Pictures of uplifting scenes hanged on the walls. Above the double doors, there are large blue plastic signs that mark the areas that lie ahead.
Cancer. A disease that everyone feared. Not me. I was different. I wanted this. Death. I’ve lived my life. No, regrets. Heaven is just a finger touch away. Or so they say. A new lease of life begins to flourish, touching every living thing in sight, giving them immaculate and divine solace. It is fate that had sent the poignant moon away. The same moon that showered us during seemly endless nights. Wait a minute. I see something beyond the corridors. In a blink of an eye, a young man glared down at me. To my amazement, this smart, good looking man told me he was my grandson. I could feel the tension. My eyebrows pinched together, an overwhelming sadness sat on my face. Tears building up, threatening at any moment to fall onto my cheeks. Suddenly, the tears overwhelmed my eyes, and sobs started to escape like Niagara Falls. But I just couldn’t help my mind from going into the past.
The jingling of the dinner bell rang. I sighed with happiness and followed the smells and laughter to my chair. My beloved daughter. Pregnant. At age 17. Word after word that flowed from her lips angered me more by the second. My patience was running out and my temper was flaring. Rage boiled through my body. I barely had a chance to think about my actions. The only thought running through my head was getting her to shut up. I pursed my lips and raised my hand back. I threw my hand forward as hard as I could, whipping it across her face. The crack of skin contacting skin echoed off the walls. Vibrations of pain started in my palm and spread all the way to my fingertips. My palm was bright red, the same red mark that matched the one on her face. She stared at me with her eyes wide as her hand slowly made it to her fire red cheek. I should've felt some kind of remorse. But I didn't. Not one organ in my body could produce guilt for my actions. I looked to see her leave. Luggage and all. I had won. Or so I thought.
Stressed. I’ve missed a phenomenal opportunity. Death has already taken over. There is no turning back. Regret. Skin cool and clammy. Sweating. Nausea. Tightness. A heavy feeling in my chest, tightening around my neck. This is the end. I lay motionless. Fear. Hatred. Regret. As I die, my grandson gently slipped his warm, caring hand into my old wrinkly lifeless hand. Relief. Realisation. This grandson is a good person. That’s all that matters. With my last attempted breath I innuendo in agony “Forgive me.”