Young Writers Society

“Forgotta!” My teacher, Mr. Henley shouted out as I was walking away. I turned back to face him, focusing on the steady beat of the rain on my umbrella. I didn’t really want to hear his words, hear him tell me everything was going to be okay. I didn’t want his sympathy. Each droplet made a gentle tapping sound against my umbrella, quiet and steady.

“Yes, Mr. Henley?” I forced a smile onto my lips, though I just wanted to scream or shout. I wanted to tell him to leave me alone, that I was fine and that I didn’t need him. But I knew he was only trying to help me.

Mr. Henley huffed and puffed as he finally reached me. He’d spotted me in the halls inside the school and I worked hard on avoiding him. Apparently not hard enough. “Forgotta, thank God I caught up to you. Didn’t you hear me shouting for you?”

“No, I must have been lost in thought. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. Listen, I know that you must be feeling awful but I want you to know that you have people here who care about you, if you ever need us. You’re such a talented young student who is faced with a terrible tragedy. I believe you can pull through this, you’re very strong. If you ever need me, I’m here for you.”

I sighed. I wished he’d leave me alone. I wished that I could scream at him and tell him he had no idea how I felt, and that if he did, he wouldn’t be standing here trying to make me feel better. “Thank-you, Mr. Henley, but I really have to go. My dad is coming to pick me up in about thirty minutes.” I turned with-out waiting for his response and quickly walked away. Boys turned their heads to look away as I walked by, the girls huddled closer to their clique and whispered as they stared towards me. They acted as if I was a freak. Maybe I was, though? Did I even care?

When I finally arrived back to my old house, my dad was already sitting in the drive-way, on the steps. His eyes were red and puffy, indicating that he’d been crying. I hadn’t cried yet, I wouldn’t allow myself. Sure, it was an awful thing that happened, but I should be grateful that I was still here.

“Forgotta, are your things ready?” He smiled towards me, a fake one. It hurt to see the pain hidden in his eyes, tears swelling up and then disappearing. I trained my eyes on the ground. I couldn’t look at his eyes; it hurt too much to see it.

“Yes, let me just go in and grab them.” I made my way inside of the house that I had been raised in. It was empty now, the furniture gone. It didn’t look like a home anymore. It was lonesome. I smiled as I remembered running through the kitchen with a batch of cookies, trying to keep them away from my mother. She had been so frustrated that day. I could see so many memories in this house, from my child-hood.

I made my way up the stairs, slowly. I wasn’t looking forward to walking past that room. The room I spent so many stormy nights huddled up in, cowering under the blankets as my mother comforted me and told me stories to make me laugh. I remember she’d pretend to be a monster, doing creepy things with her fingers, wiggling them in my face. We’d both laugh together as my fear subsided. I knew I’d never hear her resplendent laugh again. I’d never see that spark in her eyes when she looked at me. I’d miss all those things she’d tell me when she was mad at me, or the songs she’d make me sing along to.

I approached the door. I could see it was wide open, from down the hall. I had to pass it to get to my room. How could I stare into that room that marked the void in my life? The emptiness to my heart? I took a deep breath as I walked towards the door. I could almost hear her endearing voice echoing in my ears. I took another step, almost losing my breath.

“I wake up the morning cup of coffee in my hand and a song in my head,” her voice rang out. I could feel the tears swell in my eyes. Another step.

“Outside it's pouring, I heard the weather man say that I should stay in,” I could hear our laughter, perfectly combined as she sang. Closing my eyes, I took a few more steps, more lyrics flowing with each foot pushing into the beige carpet.

“There ain't no sunshine but it's all right ain't no blue sky's but it's feels right, I'll get the rain on my skin I'm ready for the day to begin.” I was at the door now. I felt as if it were trying to suck me in, take me away with her. I was tempted to go through that frame, set my soul free with hers.

I opened my eyes, staring into the room. The room was completely empty besides a large crimson stained spot on the carpet. I sighed, recollecting the pain I’d seen in her eyes when I’d ran into the room moments after the gun-shot. She was struggling to hold on, tears slowly cascading down her cheeks. I held her hand, crying, screaming, begging for her not to leave me. As she tried to speak, all was lost. The spark slipped from her light green eyes, her chest covered with blood. I’d lost the one person who loved me most the day a man had broken in and shot her. I hadn’t seen him completely. I only saw a dark figure sprinting down the stairs, a black hood pulled up. I had no clue who he might be, had it not been for the dog-tag styled necklace he’d dropped, with the initials “D.J” with “Yellow” carved below. I wore that necklace every day since her death, my way of remembering her killer. I’d find him one day and I’d take him down.

I fingered the dog-tags on my neck for a moment before tucking them down into my shirt. I carried on into my room, grabbing my bags. This was the last time I’d be in this house. All of my memories of Karen Clark would be lost within this once upon a time home. It would never be mine again.

My father waited patiently on the steps for me. He smiled wryly, his eyes refusing to meet mine. He didn’t talk much as we both climbed into the car. I sighed as we began pulling out from the drive-way of Lazybranch Street, house 106. A tear almost fell from my eye.

Almost.

You almost had me, Mom.