'Til Death Do Us Part
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Corey Blyth, Grade 8, Sydney Grammar School
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Short Story
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2015
Excellence Award in the 'Read Write Repeat 2015' competition
I peered upwards through the canopy of trees, admiring every beam of light that had the courage to pass through their crisp, emerald like leaves. A canopy full of new discoveries. My feet compressed the untouched earth below me, as the crunch of leaf litter became a familiar sound. The rain from last night’s downpour cast beads of water over the dry, crusty skin on my face. I was alone. Alone with my personal goal of finding a tree with medicinal power, power that will fight cancer. Pulling out my moist, leather-skin notebook I reminded myself of this goal.
I knew that at home, sitting in the chair that I left her in, was my frail wife, being drained of her chance of survival every day I spent in this alluring land. My wife was counting on me, my notebook and my discoveries in order to live the sensational life she once lived. “Relying on me,” I thought, “me.”
I disassembled my yellow Kevlar tent for yet another time, piling it into my rucksack. I collected my sleeping bag and cooking utensils and onwards I went, confidently moving my way through these unknown lands. Hours upon hours passed and there was still no hope insight. “Who am I to think that a goal scientists have been trying to accomplish would come so easily?” I reluctantly murmured to myself. This being said, I powered on, perhaps later than usual.
The sun sunk in the sky for yet another time, casting a purple, pink and yellow array of light towards me. It reminded me of the philosophical preachers you see on the cover of a novel, arms spread out wide, staring over a vast expanse of land with happiness penetrating their body. This phenomenon did not distract me however, I was on a mission for happiness. Crickets chirped and the songs of night arose. I pulled out my headlamp and torch and pushed harder, harder and harder still to find this tree.
Four hours later and I was getting weary and not the kind of weary you feel when stuck in traffic; the weary where it is an effort to keep your eyes open. All of a sudden, I lost my footing. My feet slid out from underneath my sleep deprived body and my wails for help were heard by nobody. It went dark.
I sat at home in the same chair my wife once did, watching TV, head bandaged and arm in a cast along with my amputated toes from a misdirected machete. The newsreader said: “Geoffrey Watson is recovering at home after losing his footing on a cliff deep within the rainforests of Brazil, sparking an extensive recovery operation.” I gambled with my life and lost money rather than gained. Should I be happy or sad, happy or sad? My mind was like a cassette tape, a continuous loop that did not go away. The sky became a shade of charcoal.
Two days later I visited the cemetery.