Bianca Lawrence, Grade 10
Slumped at the base of the great redwood tree, Damien stares at the knife, its serrated edges glistening in the moonlight. The dappled light dances with crimson splashes to create a beautiful pattern on the blade. The handle is warm and sticky in his hand. Red lines of death sketch his emotions all over his limbs, and pools of blood swell across the grass around him. Diana will be better of without me. I was only dragging her down. I have failed her. I have to free her from my overpowering embrace. I tried, and failed. I am not worthy of her. As long as I live, I will be constantly holding her back. She deserves more then me. With a determined mindset, he continues to finish his story. He glides the pen over the white page dirty with the marks of a lifetime at its end. His pen dances over his skin and the ink drips down his arms. His legs. His body. Damien drops it in a bright red pool and he sees Dianna’s face in his mind, and so lay stricken, so remembering her until he can no longer hold open his eyes, and struggles with his final, faltering breaths.
Diana finds herself at the redwood tree where Damien died. The grass is still rusted with his blood. There is a sudden gust of chill breeze and she looks around. Damien knows she can’t see him, but still he can’t help but move toward her. “Who told me time would ease my pain!” she cries, slumping against the tree.
Damien winces, recognizing the look on her face, the though like smoke rippling through the otherwise untainted air.
I’m sorry. He runs a finger gently down her cheek. She shakes her head.
She extends a pale arm towards the glimmer in the moonlight. Grasping at the knife. Damien looks at her face, the desperation clear. She is lost without him. Please don’t, Damien yells, but his voice is empty and his desperation is lost in the wind. Dianna slowly looks up, and mutters a single word, “Why?”
I’m so sorry, he replies in a soft voice, hopeful she can hear him.
“Why did you do it? Why?”
Damien sighs, the sadness filling him, you are better of without me.
“I love you,” she breathes, like it was natural, a single tear slipping down her face.
I love you too, he says automatically, letting her into his arms.
Another tear slips down her cheek, more following. Damien tightens his grip and runs his fingers through her hair. She looks up into his eyes, the recollection of him, overwhelming her, the knife slips out of her hand and falls onto the grass. I love you. I love her. I was blinded by what I had, what I had in front of me. Heaped on his heart; and his old thoughts abide, it is then he realizes he still loves her inside.