08-31-2006, 10:42 PM | #1 |
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Uspomena (memories)
I'm in a strange phase. Ever since my parents separated and I've been "forced" to think things through more than usual, many childhood memories have reappeared in my mind. A lot of memories, things I haven't thought of in years.. Some things I have written down, mostly because I want to remember, and because it's easier to think it through if I do.
This story is based on one of those memories. Uspomena I could hear the guys scream from inside. “Don‘t let him in, he‘s not from our school!” It was my 11th birthday, and I remember the cold wind on my skin and his understanding face. He was a sweet boy. I didn’t know him very well, since he was in a different school than I, but I had met him a few times through my best friend. She was in his form, and she was the pair forming master. At times we sat at a table and checked out boys on the group pictures from school. My best friend Anna told girls who to like, trying to form couples. I remember one occasion particularly well. She looked at me, then at the picture of her form and pointed at a guy sitting in the front row. His hair was reddish, his face a bit round. He looked kind, a bit shy and humble. His name was William and Anna had decided that he was mine. It never happened. We never became a couple, we hardly ever met. I had never quite liked the idea of a boyfriend. He sounded like an interesting person, though, and although my mind was set on a lot of other things all the time, his face swiftly appeared on my brain membrane from time to time. And late one evening, when I had my birthday party, he was at my door. I think that was the last time I saw him. There is a chance I saw him passing by in school later on, but I cannot recall. One evening many years later an old friend who worked at the mental hospital in town called me. She sounded upset. She had talked to him a few times, she said, and now he was gone. Just like that. He was buried two weeks later, next to my sister. It felt wrong to let him go. It was cold outside, and I wanted to invite him in. There was a lot of space, some food and huge amounts of soda left. But there was no social space, at least not among the guys. We said some words to each other, before he heard the boys screaming from inside the house. He smiled a bit, said it was okay and left. I watched as he walked down the street. I still don’t know where he went, because his home was far from mine and it was already dark. “They said he jumped, but the roof was wet and slippery. He might as well have fallen.” It puzzled my mind, but I couldn’t get a grip of it. Of course not, I hadn’t talked to him in 7 years. I had no idea what he had been through, if he wanted to jump or if he just wanted to flee the white walls. I couldn’t even guess. So I didn’t put that much thought into it, I somehow forgot. Now his face has reappeared on my brain membrane. With him he has not brought regret nor sorrow, only wonder. What if I had let him in that evening? What if all he needed was a friend, and I could’ve given him that? I know I could have. I couldn’t have given him what Anna had destined for me, but I don’t think that would have mattered too much. Maybe he had all the friends he needed.. Maybe my presence would not have changed anything. Nothing is certain to me but his death. In my dream I’m eleven again.. I’m closing the door behind me, closing in the screaming voices, as I follow him. He walks fast, but soon I reach him. Without looking at me, he takes my hand in his, and we walk on streets coated with pure, white snow. Finally, we find our way to my sister’s grave. He looks me in the eye, nods calmly and smiles. He points at the full moon.. He knows my fascination. When I lower my head again, he is not there anymore. I feel calm somehow, calm and happy, as I lay myself down on his grave to make the winter’s first snow angel.
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08-31-2006, 10:46 PM | #2 |
Fenway Ranger, Lord of Red Sox Nation
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Nice work. That was a great portrait of the character.
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Adventure...betrayal...heroism... Atharon: where heroes are born. My wife once said to me—when I'd been writing for ten or fifteen years—that I could always go back to being a nuclear engineer. And I said to her, 'Harriet, would you let someone who quit his job to go write fantasy anywhere near your nuclear reactor? I wouldn't!' (Robert Jordan) |
08-31-2006, 10:53 PM | #3 |
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Thank you for reading.. I'm glad you like it.
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