Young Writers Society

I once saw a girl smoking a cigarette.

Over hills and down valleys, I have seen almost all of the world.
Try to find a section that is foreign to me. One does not exist.
I collect memories, lives of others I know for only a moment.
None more intriguing than that girl in the country I have since forgotten.

I first spotted the girl at a rickety playground, the swings swaying in the wind
and chips of metal littering the concrete beneath.
She couldn’t have been more than twelve.
Still young enough to enjoy crackled paint against calloused palms.
Still young enough to be entranced by a painted flower.
Still young enough to know reckless abandon.
But she only stood and watched,
breathing in death and puffing out worries,
all the cares of the world wrapped around her neck –
a noose of her own mistakes.
Her white dress was littered with stains and sewn awkwardly.
The blond hair that reached halfway down her back swayed
as the breeze debated which direction to run.
She was peaceful.
She was troubled.
She was strong.
She was destroying herself.

I tapped her shoulder and she turned slowly.
Where her eyes should’ve been, I only saw empty taverns. There was
nothing in her gaze.
I asked her:
Girl, why do you hold that stick between your teeth?
Don’t you fear death?
Her skin turned another shade of yellow as she took a long drag.
Then she answered me:
I fear loneliness and those who torture others.
I fear bombs and wars, sobs of strangers that I cannot help.
I fear the clouds swallowing the sun and the moon falling from orbit.
I fear the ground splitting and stealing my body, leaving my soul behind.
Her answer was an enigma… but she wasn’t finished.
Stranger, I fear many things. But I do not fear this stick of death.
It is I that ruins its life. When I am finished, it is no more.
Proving her point, she slammed the bud to the ground
and squashed it violently
before kicking it beneath a dying bush.
I gaped at her:
You can’t do that! There are places to toss a bud
so it won’t kill something helpless.
Then I pulled back the leaves to reveal dozens more bits of death.
Some of them are still smoldering while others are at their ends.
I demanded an answer:
Are these all yours?
Her slight nod lacked regret:
You look at me like I’ve done something wrong.
There is so much you know and have learned
from your travels. Don’t tell me
you don’t understand what these are for.
Each one is much more than death entering my body.

The wisdom in her soul was more than I had ever encountered.

She pointed to the closest bud:
This belongs to the day our father left us.
It was one of the still smoldering ones.
She moved on to the next:
This belongs to the day the trucks came to take the boys off to war.
That one shriveled and died as I watched it.
Her stories followed one after the other as she pointed out
each bud in turn:
This belongs to the day I broke my arm and there was no money to fix it.
This belongs to the day I couldn’t stop my friend from being kidnapped.
This belongs to the day I was kicked out of lessons because of my anatomy.
This belongs to the day I took punishment for my brother stealing an orange.
She spoke to me carefully, as if the words would break
and be no more.
I listened intently with terror and shock.
She explained all thirty-eight buds
then stepped onto the playground.
I called after her:
Wait, girl. What does the bud from today belong to?
She turned slightly:
This one belongs to the day I found out my little brother is dying of disease.

The little boy she scooped up in her arms stopped me from pursuing her.
His skin was as pale as the surface of the moon
and his eyes held the same emptiness hers did. I let them pass without a fuss.
They disappeared down the road.

She was there the next day when I returned,
her back to me. I tapped her shoulder as I had the previous day
but she didn’t turn.
Smoke rose in front of her and I rolled my eyes:
Are you still trusting that death stick? It’s not going to make your life better.
She faced me at that moment and I noticed her face sagging.
Her mouth was barely able to open as she spoke:
I’m not looking for my life to get better. I just want to dissolve the pain.
I nodded just to appease her before pulling a card from my pocket,
one my friend provided me with:
This will connect you with the best doctor in the area.
Take your brother. Is he out playing?
My eyes search the damaged metal and cracking concrete
but didn’t connect with the ghostly boy.
Her voice is empty, yet full of venom:
You’re too late, Stranger.
Another soul left our family last night.
We stand in silence as she continues to smoke.
I expect to see tears on her cheeks
or shaking in her hands.
Neither happened.
When she finished, she held the bud to my face:
This one belongs to the day a stranger was too late to make a difference.
She rocked the earth when she dropped it.
I stomped it out for her. Pulled back the bush.
All I found was empty dirt.
The buds were gone.

I could tell you of my journey through that town to find her.
I could tell you of the many bushes I searched for her new stash.
I could tell you of the extra days I spent in that country.
I could tell you of hours I wasted by the plane waiting for her to find me.
She never came.

Now I stare out the tiny window as we pass over yet another canvas of blue,
forty thousand feet up,
hurtling to another country that I cannot pronounce.
I try to force the memory from my mind and it refuses to budge.
I soon realize I don’t want it to go.
That girl was the first I wasn’t able to help.
Nothing was impossible
but some things have tragic ends.
Never again.

I need a cigarette.

This one belongs to the day I became the stranger I never was.