Young Writers Society

"Daddy, come here and see!"

"What is it now?" His voice was agitated; slightly raised. He would've shouted, but he suppressed his anger. Still, my heart could sense it; the anger he held inside. Am I such a burden?

"I'm - I'm sorry," my voice creaked. I meant no harm. But that apology didn't help. It probably made things worse.

"Sorry? God, sorry for what?! What's wrong with - " he gave up the sentence midway, "Look, you're making me late, okay? I've gotta go." So abruptly he left. The pancakes I proudly made for him that morning lay uneaten upon the table. Did he even see them?

The car engine roared to life, and I saw my father drive off without looking back - without saying goodbye. I was still sitting on the steps to the front door of my home. I just wanted to show him a snail I found on the grass that was now at my feet. I rarely saw snails. My jaw tightened with anger as the questions demanded in my head. Why doesn't he care? Why can't he ask about my day? Why doesn't he want to answer when I ask what's wrong? Why can't he be more like how mum was?!

"Mum..."

It was a cold autumn morning just two years ago. I remember placing a bouquet of flowers upon that ebony casket. Beside it, facing the crowd of mourners, was her name engraved in stone. Loving mother, faithful wife.

In a way I could never seem to find out, my father has never been the same since.

My eyes blinked. I was staring at the snail moving so slowly. It seemed to drone forever. Then I couldn't hold my anger anymore. I quickly stood up and started stomping the ground until I could hear cracks beneath my feet - like I was stepping on thin porcelain. I was killing the snail. A wave of guilt and disgust hit me in my heart's core. It was then that my foot hung in the air before gently placing itself back on the ground. I could not control the tears welling up in my eyes. My breathing grew shallow; I started to shiver. Then I ran inside, slamming the front door.

Mum's picture was always hidden underneath my pillow. My father wouldn't let any image of her stand in the house. It was probably the only memory I had of her, this picture. I lay on my bed, looking at it. My small room had the curtains drawn, making it dark - shunned from the morning light. I shivered, cried and sobbed. I hated the way Mum was always smiling in the picture. She always smiled when I cried.

"Honey, what's wrong?" she would say, squatting in front of me, holding my shoulders gently. And if I didn't say anything but continued crying - wiping my tears with my hands - she'd just smile and embrace me. I would hug her back tightly, feeling the warmth - both in feeling and also in my heart. Then when we let go, she'd look at me and ask me to smile because everything's okay since she's there. And a moment later, I'd be smiling too.

But that's all just history.

"I killed a snail today, Mum," I said. I tried my best to put my words like how I did everyday when I told her what I did or what happened. I looked at the picture through my tears. Mum was smiling, standing on a bridge. Behind her was a sea of water and a clear blue sky. The wind blew her shoulder-lengthed hair. She looked so pretty. She always looked pretty until the last few weeks she lay at the hospital. Then her face was pale, her hair messy and sprawled everywhere on the pillow. She couldn't speak or smile with the tube in her mouth. So she didn't say goodbye - just like how my father did that morning.

"Why did it have to die?" I continued, "I killed it because I was angry at Dad. But it didn't do anything to me, so why did I have to kill it?"

I knew the words I said. But they couldn't come out clearly. I couldn't say them properly in my quivering. Was Mum able to hear what I was saying?

I still held her picture in my hand but I buried my face in my pillow. She always said it was okay to cry and I didn't have to hold it in. So I let myself go. I let out all my tears. No one would hear my wailing. No one would be there. And I realised I've never felt so alone.

Still, the guilt would not go.

"I killed something innocent," I said quietly. I could not breathe through my congested nose. "It didn't deserve to die. It's all my fault. I'm sorry I didn't turn out to be a good girl. I let you and Dad down. I'm sorry, Mum. I'm so sorry - so so sorry."

And then I fell asleep and missed school.

***

"One cheese burger and a soda, please," I stretched my hand out to the counter above me and passed some money to the man on the other side. My father never came home until after I went to bed. I was already used to the smell of alcohol he'd bring home every night. The money he'd give me every morning was to buy myself dinner at night.

"This all you're having for dinner?"

"Yup."

"And you're all alone here?"

"Yup."

"A little girl like you ain't supposed to be out alone, you know. Especially when it's getting dark." I looked at his name tag. "Chuck," it said.

I smiled. "It's alright, Chuck. I live just nearby."

"Alright then. Goodnight, and please come again!" he called as I walked out the door. I lied to him. Home was five blocks away. A long walk lay before me. I'd finish my meal by the time I got home.

It was late. I lay asleep on my bed. The room was dark but the full moon was shining bright that night. The curtains were drawn, causing the furniture in the room to abide to the moonlight and cast shadows everywhere. It was a silent night - not even the crickets would serenade nature's dark side.

It was not hard for me to hear my room door slowly open and close. But I couldn't hear anyone nor feel their presence. It must've been my father opening the door probably to make sure I was alright. But...since when did he do that?

Probably I just imagined it all.

I didn't want to think. I just told myself that there was no need to stir and I should just go back to sleep. The room was still quiet as I lay on my side.

But that peace didn't last long.

Everything that happened after that went by so fast. It would if it were a stranger in front of you. It would if you wished not to see it. But that brief moment kept going on, unceasing. The hand that forced me against the bed, and those eyes that were swollen and red, seemed vaguely familiar in the darkness.

The shimmer of metal caught my eye before I felt it plunge and land in my chest. I heard a voice that seemed constrained when it only let out a sound to exclaim the pain. It was my pain, my voice. I looked at the figure above me. Through the shadows upon the face I couldn't quite make it out. But I was sure of the hand that held the knife that was now embedded in me. The figure let out a cry, too; a cry of hurt and pain. I could smell a bitter alcoholic scent in the air, in its panting. I looked at its bloodshot eyes. Those eyes looked back at me in fear. Dad?

Then...blank.

***

Mum always told me not to talk to strangers. But there I was, talking with someone I never met before.

"I'm sorry I woke you up."

Silence hung in the air for a while. Then I replied, "What happened before I fell asleep?"

He gave an awkward smile, as if he was thinking of the words to say. "You remember that snail?"

My face dropped as I remembered what I did. The guilt and horror flashed in my memories once again.

He shook his head, and somehow I took it that I was thinking differently than what he meant. Then it dawned upon me - a metaphor.

I nodded. I understood. "I became the snail."

"Yes. Yes, you did. And you were very sorry about it."

"So you think he's sorry, too?" I was hoping. Is Dad sorry, too?

He paused. "We'll see." His face was glowing, like an angel. I looked at my hands. It was surprising to see that they were glowing, too - radiant.

"Do you know who I am?"

"No," I replied, unsure of what else to say.

"Just...call me Jesus," he said, offering his hand, beckoning me to follow. "Your mother's waiting," he added, "and after that I'll take you to our Father."

"Our Father," I thought. Somehow I believed him.

I took his hand. "Hey Jesus, is my mum pretty again?"

He laughed. "Yes, my child. Very pretty."

____

Edited 3/8/08. Crits welcome!