Visitor

• Summer Crombie, Grade 10
• Short Story
• 2015

The wind shall whisper your name into my ear; the earth’s core shall rumble with fear; a storm shall strike if you dare come near! Brightness shall be dulled, laughter will turn into tears, and sweet dreams shall become bitter nightmares.

We shall know of your coming; our world shall take an unforeseen turn. I daren’t hope that you’d stay away forever. I know that you are coming…

My other visitors change things, but not like you do. Mrs I gave me the basis for a bestselling game, and my finances soared. Mr K made me start smiling at children, instead of shooing them away. Mr C-S made me wear a coat when it was windy. I’ve had lots of visitors, and they have changed different aspects of my life, but none of them change me like you do – so completely, so holistically.

I remember the last time you visited me. Blood rushes to my cheeks, likening them to ghost peppers, and darkness fills my eyes. How utterly humiliating the situation you put me in was! The time before that, I remember hanging my head low, and feeling like I was burning up. I would become ashes for people to stamp and spit on. If you hadn’t come, I would’ve been the antithesis – a man with his pride intact.

Of course, everyone gets visited by you, just like they get visited by Mrs I, Mr K and Mr C-S. You though, are relentless. For some reason, other people feel good after you’ve left them. I feel like a battered trash can. Perhaps you treat them differently.

Breezes ruffle me, and tremors run up through my legs. A clap of thunder shatters my last shred of hope. I know that if I turn around, you will be standing there.

I can’t resist you. I am forced to turn around.

“Hello Mr C,” I say.

“Hello. You kept me away for as long as you could, but my arrival was inevitable,” he replies. His stance is upright and he radiates poise, as usual. In his right hand he holds his brown suitcase, and he wears a black suit. Sometimes I wonder if the suitcase ever gets cleaned and the clothes washed, because they are never changed. Yet they’ve remained the same all these years and still look brand new. “You know why I am here. Last time you took tedious hours to admit the reason for my presence, but will you be so childish this time? You know you shouldn’t push such things away. Your pride is not worth more than the reparations you make when you respond to consequences you have brought about.”

My response to him is always the same: “You’re right.”

You can’t force him to stay away. He comes, and your world shudders. You think it is falling, but afterwards, you see that the quakes have just shaken things into place.

Perhaps people feel good after he leaves because he is right.

Conscience is never wrong.