The Last Child In The Neighbourhood

• Ruby-Rose Braddock, Grade 9
• Short Story
• 2022

The bottle of wine in the fridge had gone dry and the aroma of the sweet peppers and tomatoes was gone from the empty kitchen. I wasn't surprised knowing my family's schedule was as unpredictable as the weather. That night I sat on the balcony. The breeze was cool but I had to feel it go through my hair, and hearing the soft rustle of the heavy leaves made me restless in my bed. I looked down into the suburban park and saw the city was asleep.

The sirens woke me up and the air horns punctuated the whistling wind gusting chaos through the trees. I knew the diagnosis was going to be bad. I didn't know what was happening, but I knew that something would happen, sooner or later.

A few years ago a friend of mine got hit by a car while cycling. Broken leg, burst spleen, concussion. At first they thought he would survive, but then they were facing losing him. When I visited him in the hospital. He was lying in bed, covered with bandages. His face was bruised from being hit, he was in a lot of pain. I sat at his bedside, looking at him. His breathing was laboured, and his skin paled, whey blue. His eyes were closed, sometimes open only to blink.

He looked like a beaten and battered toy.

The morning after the funeral there was a fine mist enveloping the landscape, a pale haze that left long fingers of colour in the distance. That day they were gone. Their house and possessions stood as they had left it, as though nothing had changed. The sky was overcast, but the sun was nowhere to be seen.

The house remained empty. The neighbours had sold off his things, his computer, his home videos and board games were gone. Had they gone to be donated. His favourite book, his stuffed frog, had been given away. Whatever happened to his clothes was unknown, perhaps they had been buried with him.

When I was little, a sibling of mine inadvertently got his throat cut. I saw the blood, and how he lay in a puddle of it, with his little fingers shaking, trying to draw breath around the blade.

I remember lying in bed, eyes wide open, listening to the sounds of my parents trying to put my brother back together. He was bleeding out, every breath he took was in pain. His eyes opened and closed, then closed and opened again, as though trying to communicate something. His blood was bright red, streaking the white sheets of our bed.

I don't know exactly how old I was when it happened, but I was young, and still capable of being woken by these dreams until I was a teenager. I would hear the weather gusting through the room, the machines, the smell of the hospital, but mostly what I would remember was the sound of his throat trying to find air, and me wondering if he was already dead.