Young Writers Society

The auditorium was a cacophony of noise, the loud murmuring of early morning conversation filling the air. Mr. Price stepped up to the podium, waiting patiently for silence and when none was forthcoming, he raised a hand. A bored hush fell over the crowd.

“This morning, at six o’clock, Myra Wish Isby was riding in a car that was struck at a cross-road by a man who ran the stop. She is now in the hospital. Her family asks for your prayers and for her close friends to visit her in the hospital. Thank you.” Mr. Price coughed, shuffled his papers, and leaned back into the microphone. “That’s all for morning announcements. Please go to your third period class.” He had never been known for his eloquence of speech.

A few students looked at each other with puzzled expressions, wondering who Myra was. A few others milled about to their classes, hardly caring because they had never known that girl. And a few, very few, gathered into a small group, shocked and worried, conversing in low tones.

“She must have been on her way to school,” one said.

“How awful,” another agreed. Celik said nothing, just watching the small group with a blank expression before turning on his heel and walking away. Pushing open the school doors, he walked to his car, his hands shaking slightly as he grabbed his keys and engine purred to life.

It was an odd experience, this floating world of blurred shapes and colors. Myra felt as though she was underwater, watching everything from below. She could hear muffled voices, her parents crying, doctors testing for response, but she couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. She felt every heartbeat sending vibrations through her hazy world, like drumbeats.

“You have to let me see her,” Celik said, trying to keep his voice down as the doctor stood in his way. Myra’s family walked towards him slowly, their heads down and worry creasing their faces.

“Let him in,” Myra’s mother said tiredly, her hands clenched tight on the hem of her shirt. The doctor sighed but stepped out of the way, allowing Celik access to the room.

Myra could hear Celik speaking. She tried to call out to him, tell him how glad she was that he came, but again, she couldn’t move. She strained, trying to rise above whatever liquid state was imprisoning her, but was only pushed back.

“Myra,” Celik said softly, reaching out for her hand. At his touch, the heart rate monitor sped up slightly, and the doctor made a pleased noise in the back of his throat before scribbling on his clipboard. “God, I was such an idiot, please come back,” Celik said quietly, his head bent low over Myra’s prone form. “Sometimes I wish I believed in a god,” Celik murmured. “At least then I could pray.”

Celik thought of long nights, sitting in front of his computer, smiling through the night since neither of them slept. He thought of those moments when Myra was upset and she’d leave, only to come back after he asked her to …

“Stay,” Celik said slowly. “Please stay, Myra, stay with me.” The heart rate monitor fluttered again. “I know you hear me.”

Myra fought, struggling back to consciousness, trying to throw off the heavy, leaden weight that held her down, and for a moment, she was sure she had won …

Celik watched as the beeping filled the room and nurses and doctors swarmed the room as the monitor flat lined. He held the hand he was holding, now growing limp and slowly cold as the life and light bled out of the room, before stumbling away, grief ripping through him until he was under a blanket of stars and didn’t feel quite so alone.