Of all that's left

• Kate Hibbens, Grade 9
• Short Story
• 2004

This was his time, their time, for mourning. They would sit together and become enveloped within each other’s minds. This was the time that he took to stay with him, and be with him for as long as he desired.

The fun times would roll through their minds like a flipbook, or a fairytale. They would hear laughter and feel a soccer ball roll underfoot. They would smell baking cake, they would be happy. There would be joy in their stomaches, and laughter at their throats.

And then darkness would fall upon them, the scene would turn black, and their thoughts would be emptied into the hollowness in their eyes. Grief would swell inside them both and pour out in torrents of raging pain.

Sickness will make his head throb and he will scream and thrash and sob and he will be dizzy from lack of oxygen. He will open his eyes and he will breathe slowly and a wave of guilt and panic will sweep him. He will curl up and try to hide from the world and see only himself, a heartless man. He will stare aimlessly and watch the soccer ball roll under the young ones foot. He will rock and hyperventilate before he will sob again, feeling a desperate hopelessness and tragedy.

He will sit for hours on his own, with his son. He will think of death, and of pain. He will think of suffering, and he will feel the soul and existence of the faceless boy being pulled out of him and he will feel death. He will try to not to look through the black haze that separates the living and the dead, for the stinging guilt, though a stabbing at his heart will overthrow him if he does not. The child has no expression, no face, because the man’s soul will hurt, and the man is selfish, yet selfless. He is unaware of feeling and seeing, touch or perception.

Anger will seize opportunity and there will be blood. There will be pain but not his own, it will be that of the loved ones he has, when they feel such endless torture. It will be with him always, and everyday he will have this time of theirs.

It seems a sad thing for this strong man to be swallowed so easily. Such a man hides from his life and dwells within memories. He lives here, in his own world, his creation.

His fingers run the gun tenderly, his last remnant of a life lost so young. An innocent life with so much passion and fire, killed by its own hand, by a deadly weapon, by a rare and regretful accident.

Of all that is good in his life, there can be only memories, and mourning.