Hope

• Sarah Messer, Grade 9
• Short Story
• 2018

The rain danced on her skin.
She stared at the ground, placing one foot in front of the other, splashing through the puddles lining the pathway.
‘Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry,’ Bridget whispered to the lonely night, the rhythm of the words matching the beat of her steps.
‘I have to get away, have to escape. Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry,’ she whispered, the empty words now strangely comforting, for they were all she had.
‘Don't cry, don't cry, don't…’
A loud sob was torn from her body, the pain of despair forcing her to her knees. Now she was shaking, sobbing, trembling as her ragged breathing pierced the peaceful night.
Tears and rain intertwined in a ballet of graceful harmony, reflecting the silver light of the moon as they rolled down her cheeks.
‘Please, please,’ she sobbed, desperately calling out to the heavens to have mercy, to make it stop, to take away the pain.
It felt as if her heart had been torn apart and slowly stitched back together as she sat on the gutter, rain gathering in pools at her feet and the feelings of hopelessness overwhelmed her. She knew she couldn't go back. Not while they were fighting.
Her dad hit her mum today. Bridget slowly backed away in horror as she watched the blood dripping from her mum's cheek.
As she was running away she heard her mum's scream following her like a ruthless echo, an inescapable reminder of her father's drunken rage.
And then she doubled over at the memory as another wave of grief hit and she was gasping, moaning as her lungs drew in air in a futile attempt to keep her alive, as if they thought it was worth the pain.
‘Please, please, make it stop,’ she screamed to the stars.
And then she heard splashing behind her. She turned her head to reveal a boy, of about age five, standing over her where she sat on the ground, in little red boots, his cheeks flushed and rosy. He gave a small smile, pressed something into her hand and ran away, the little red boots being swallowed by the night once more.
It was soft, and small and cold, barely brushed by the rains of heaven.
She opened her hand to reveal a flower, pure white petals in contrast to the harsh and fearful night.
It was an iris. The flower of hope.