That Fateful Night

• Jai Sabu, Grade 8
• Short Story
• 2015

As the burning sun began to set, leaving streaks of pink and purple smeared across the dusk sky. The feint silhouette of the bright full moon began to appear. The hazy colours of the day struggled against the sharp colours of the night as pale washed out stars began to appear, one by one, each like a dull eye in the pitch black, strung onto the sky by the thin lines of moon light. The white dreamy clouds of the day disappeared, replaced by the overcast grey clouds of the night, gently swaying.
The cityscape with such natural beauty as a backdrop was a sight to behold. The unfathomably tall buildings littered every street as the street lights illuminated the concrete pavement. Trees adorn with sides of the pavement, straining to grow against the unnatural, humanity. Along with the agonising torrid weather of the day, the horde of urban folk had waned as well. The last few people hurried back to their high-rise apartments as dusk began to fall. Leaves and flyers fluttered around, across the dusty tarred road.
The wood around which surround the city began to darken and evaporate in the inky obscurity of the night. The crisp golden leaves fluttered down onto the ground creating a narrow path of leaves into the woods, as the leaves that were left to form the canopy wavered unsteadily on the reedy stick like branches that wove together to fashion trees. The looming darkness nurtured a sense of claustrophobia within the miles of woodlands as the tarnished shrubbery grew savagely around the forest floor.
The stagnant odour of the burning citronella candles had wafted into the apartment covering up the scent of musty, old, time worn books that enclosed the walls of the apartment creating a sense of stuffiness.
Out of the last shadows of the dusk came a vague outline of a young girl. All around her is wrapped in the golden colours of the setting sun. As she begins to get closer more details of her appear. The alarming fact is she looks like she is only twelve, but her hazel eyes tells the story of a life time, a life time cut short.
I watch her stroll down the street, her black boots crunch on the crisp golden leaves of the autumn, her charcoal coloured hands lye still next to her torso, dead and lifeless. Her jet black hair as midnight covered her eyes. Her face is sullen, sunken into the bone. Though I knew her name, I dare not call her. She is my past, she is always my past…
As her stringy twilight hair catches the last ray of sunlight, signalling the beginning of the night. Her heavy burdenous steps take her closer to the woods, closer to the edge, closer to the truth. She seems to always murmur something to the air, something of a secret, she knows no one can hear her but she is chanting something, she is chanting my name…