I Remember Now

• Kyan Allard, Grade 11
• Short Story
• 2021

Shafts of white light elegantly cascade through the arms of the eucalypts that surround me. I can see now. I plant my hands firmly onto the damp topsoil, finding the strength to heave myself from my sprawled position on the earth. Papery dew covered leaves still cling to my bare calves. What is this place? I can hear now, the rhythm of water, ebbing and flowing. Distant. I reminisce on the rain stick my mother used to own. There is nowhere for me to go except towards this familiar sound.
Fronds of my honey-like hair, now glimmering with silver, fall into my eyes. So, I reach for the sage coloured ribbon that resides in my left pocket, yet my hand fumbles on nothing and claws desperately at the frayed stitching. Instead, my empty fingers loosely tuck the strands behind my ears, and out of habit I crack my knuckles onto the side of my hip.
I wander forward through the limbo. It must be twilight. Because when the trees thin, and the sky opens up, gold threatens the indigo horizon.
A hearty gust carries the scents of the bush through my body, its icy fingers caress the damp hairs that linger on the back of my neck. The wind stirs up the ground. I follow the dancing leaves until I reach the highway where they scatter onto their own paths. I place my bare foot onto the cragged bitumen, and the sun’s residual warmth seeps up and embraces my arrival.
Beads of sweat begin to gather on my palms, so I briskly scrunch my shirt into my hands. Foot after foot, I make my way out onto the middle of the road.
Two orbs of light appear further down the highway. I try to move but I am frozen to the ground. The road is not welcoming anymore. My body squirms in its place. The throaty mechanical growl advances, and my gaze can only lock onto the headlights of my demise. It is meters ahead. For a split second I divert my gaze, and I glance into the eyes of the driver. Mum? Her jaw hangs loosely, and her eyes are on the verge of tears. Her hands rashly jerk the steering wheel to the right and the car follows in tow. As the vehicle plummets off the steep edge of the highway, down into the rain stick sea below, I catch a glimpse of someone small sitting in the back seat. All I could make out was the void of their silhouette.
I remember now.
My legs move with me this time. The twisted iron rail braces my impact, and my elbows retreat behind me as I peer down into the rocky depths at the base of the cliff. There lies the rusted wreck of a car, and the skeleton of a girl. The sage ribbon flailing in her hands, not mine. All I can do is scream out into the empty night.
Because I remember now.