Fragments

• Jerrard Chan, Grade 8, Vermont Secondary College -
• Short Story
• 2022

Excellence Award in the 'Unleashed 2022' competition

I am going to die.
Dull stars plague the darkness, the moon shrouded by looming clouds. The cold, unforgiving asphalt presses hard onto my cheek, pushing, ignoring my internal pleas. Fragments of glass, fragments of my life, scatter the ground, drowning in pools of crimson red liquid, slowly dying. A chilly wind strokes my skin, releasing a shiver from my body; a slave emancipated from his master. The lone lamp post emits a faint white light, barely illuminating the narrow alleyway, but is enough to reveal his bodily form. Death’s.
I can see him. Slowly creeping towards me. His hood obscuring his appearance. Scythe in hand.
I know I’m going to die.
Yet, my instincts roll my body away from him, but I forget that glass, broken glass, demarcates the boundaries of my death bed. Searing pain shoots down my spine like a bullet slicing through the air, forcing me to tumble back on my face. Groaning, I reach my hand out to my back, pulling out the shards that had penetrated deep into my skin. As I do this, I feel viscous liquid seep into my shirt, gluing it to my skin.
Never trust my instincts. If I had just followed that one principle, I wouldn’t have grown up to be a depressed alcoholic, drinking whenever I just wanted to give up on life, frittering my little money on liquor and spirits. I wouldn’t have lost my loved ones – my woman, my daughters, my family. I wouldn’t have been broken. An endless stream of regret and rue flows through my blood, incessantly striking my chest. I shut my eyes.
I am going to die.
Or… am I?
For the length of my existence, I have been unconscious. Unconscious to all the vile damage I have done. Unconscious to the true meaning of life and instead acting on impulse, to contrive ephemeral happiness, then diving even deeper into the depths of depression. An endless cycle of gradual suicide. I’m alive, yet I’m not living. So how can someone die if they haven’t lived?
Strangely, this thought gives me a sense of comfort. I don’t know how, but it somehow does.
An uproar of rustling noises is now heard as howling gales jostle autumn leaves. I can feel his spindly fingers trace down my spine, icy, and I know that it is time. But I won’t back down. He wraps his arms around me, capturing my tarnished soul, and I embrace his hug. No more regrets, no more alcohol, no more violence. I’m lifted off the ground, and suddenly, I feel light, lighter than… everything.
I’m not going to die. Because I never lived.