Warm Waves

• Zahra Ali, Grade 12
• Short Story
• 2018

When I was 16, I was alone and desperate. My father had been abusive ever since mum’s death, he always reeked of booze, as if he were drowning himself in it. School was hell. My grades were poor, causing others to shun me. Social pressures and anxieties swallowed me whole. Too ashamed to speak out I bore it all. But I was breaking under the torrent of hard blows, chocking in a sea of sharp words that sliced into my heart, though they left no mark.
That day, when I got on the bus, I wanted to die. I had given up. I wanted to escape to the netherworld, be it heaven or hell, nirvana or nothingness. My eyes were blood shot, finally dry of all tears, my clothes were ragged and torn, dirt caked my sneakers. I didn’t care, all I could see was the sea, the vast blue ocean in which I planned to disappear.
Suddenly I felt a light touch on my shoulder, I turn around to face an old woman of about 60 years. I didn’t get a chance to wonder what a grandmother wanted from me. For, after a moment’s hesitation, she hugged me tight.
The shock of the embrace was electrifying. It felt as if she gave me a triple decker sundae supreme, with chocolate vanilla syrup and coffee wafers.
It was just a hug, yet she had validated my existence. The little old woman in the flowered wrapper didn’t ask who or what, she just embraced me, dirty clothes and all.
Warm tears filled my eyes, as I hug her back tightly, revelling in her love and warmth.
“Thank you” I croaked between sobs, “Thank you.” The woman said nothing, silently stroking my hair with tender care.
Thank you for saving the useless me.
Thank you for loving me.
Thank you.
The woman will never know that the 16-year-old girl she just embraced was on the verge of suicide. She might not even remember me.
But 15 years on I remember her.
“Doctor Shellie, Michael’s here.”
“Let him in,” I get up from my desk and warmly welcome a young teenager into the room.
“Michael! How are you? It’s been so long,” I embrace him heartily and he squeezes back, a small smile lightening up his thin face. I hug all my patients, knowing they need to be enveloped by an ocean of warmth. “Sit down, make yourself comfortable,” I gesture towards the blue couches littered with red and green cushions as I shut the door.
The little silver plaque on it catches my eye, 'Dr Shellie Rose, Psychologist'. I smile.
Who knew a warm hug would get me this far.