Young Writers Society

NOTE:

Please help me out with this, I need to write a bunch of short stories on the concept of power. This one I was hoping to convey the power of forgiveness. Please tell me if it suceeds or not, and feel free to cut it to shreds with your perfecting claws of knowledge:)

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You know how you can’t remember your birth or anything from when you were a baby. Well death is the same.

It might not be like this for everyone, this is just my personal experience of death anyhow. But I think it’s fair to say that I’m a bit more educated on the subject then you. After all, you’re not dead - yet. Whereas I, dear beloved I, know I am indeed dead, but can’t for the sake of me remember why. There is no memory of pain or suffering, regret or final goodbyes. All that’s left is the other bits – the bits that fill this room now.

They congregate in small groups and speak in hushed tones, doing their rounds of viewing the casket. I shouldn’t be so critical, they at least look sad. Except for one, her eyes hold nothing but secrets – my secrets. I wish I could float over and spook her, maybe tie her shoelaces together for a laugh. Unfortunately however, she doesn’t have shoelaces, and I haven’t quite caught on to this ‘dead’ thing yet.

I can’t feel my limbs, in fact, now I’m thinking about I don’t think I have any. I can see them; lying perfectly still with no blood in their veins, but they’re not mine anymore, I don’t think. She approaches them, the curious power of determination moving her legs. When she reaches my corpse she leans in, taking my cold hand in hers. Her eyes close, she kisses my cheek, and then she whispers…

“I forgive you.”

I can’t help but notice the weight lifting off my shoulders. Problem is though; I don’t know what the weight was. She knows me; she knows I won’t leave it at that. She’s doing this on purpose. I know, because I know her. She doesn’t want me to move on.

But no, that’s just silly. How could she know anything about being dead? True, she does remind me of an undead evil sorceress at times, but I always thought that was just the optimistic part in me. Deep down I know she is much worse than that. Deep down I know she is really something way more scheming, malicious, and deceiving than that.

Deep down I know she is the cause of my death.

Slithers of memories push to the front of mind. I remember the feeling now; the overpowering sensation of fleeting moments –last moments, the realisation of final breaths, the sound of my final heartbeat, the sound of hers, continuing on after mine had stopped.

And I remember the tears; that rolled over her cheeks as she sighed in relief.

“And I’m sorry,” she whispers into my ear. I hear it loud and clear, like the church bells that ring each Sunday.

I forgive you too my love…

And then it was over. Everything was over. I left and all that remained of me was the photographs that would eventually degrade away, and the memories that would someday die with those who had them.

Forgiveness had set me free.

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