Thread:RyuuSkarWolfingston/@comment-10665455-20130802181732/@comment-10665455-20130802191002

@ryu, here's my short story: no laughing at my crappy skills T^T

Belated Birthday

My handwriting stands like a small forest on the page. I try to think of more to say, but the words I write don’t fit the day. In a sleepy attempt to keep my pen moving, I add one bag, two bags, three bags of sugar to my coffee. It spills. I end up pouring the rest of the creamy liquid down the sink. The bitter brown water swirls down the drain. Normally, I have plenty to talk when it comes to you. The way your eyes crinkle when you smile, how you sleep with the windows open, how you crack lame jokes when I’m sad, and share your scarf when I’m cold. Today, I can’t seem to write anything. Today is different. It’s marked with a red circle on the calendar. A loose handful of forget-me-nots are tied together with a blue ribbon. Your favourite flower and colour. I gaze over my letter one more in a last attempt to write something meaningful. The sentences walk lightly upon the paper. Half heartedly, I sign the letter and fold it corner to corner. I tuck both the square of paper and the flowers into a creamy white envelope. A dollar shop birthday cake sticker hides the coffee stain and seals my gift. I go to first to my room, then down the stairs, and out the back door.



As I open the door, I am greeted with silence.

 All I can find is silence in the winter air. No wind whispered through the dead branches. No braking wheels hissed on black ice; only the sound of my boots, scuffling not-so-gracefully against the ice. The sun was still low in the east. White clouds crept across the skies and the city took on a drowsy trance. I stretch out my mittens, sensing the ghost of a snowfall. I stop at the bus stop. I was merely a small silhouette in the middle of the morning fantasy that was unravelling around me. Winter here is beautiful. Breathtakingly beautiful. Downy snowflakes drift silently without a care. Icicles hang from the branches dripping gracefully like melting diamonds, and dots of white are ripped in the violent wind. Elegant millwork towers rise above the fog line. The snow starts to fall heavily on everything. Over the gleaming terraced roofs, and huddled towers. Over a small whisper of love and hate, down rain-dark walls and laced through the cement lines. It is poetry in motion. My hands, feeling empty without yours, find each other and hold on.

 Finally, an early hour bus pulled in, its doors screeched open, and the metal’s scarred with rust and grease. I climbed up its slippery steps and dropped a few coins in the bucket, almost losing my footing on the rickety stairs. Only a few people were on the bus - it was still dawn, I knew - although I had no watch to confirm. I took a seat beside an elderly man with a bushy beard and a grandfatherly smile. The drive was dreary and long. A couple stops were made. Early bird citizens entered and exited, newspapers slipped neatly under their arms, morning coffees in hand. The elderly man coughed as the woman in front of him took a sleepy drag from her cigarette. A few middle aged workers from their factory night shift were laughing in rough, eroded voices. Afraid to make eye contact with the men, I pushed myself against the corner of the bus and pressed my forehead to the window, my forehead numbed by its biting cold, the glass fogging up with every stuffy breath I took. Foggy, distorted views of the brightening city flew past my window. The snow continued to fall. My only thoughts are of you. Are you there already in our promised place? Surely, you’ll be cold waiting for me. I can just imagine how lonely you must be. Are you angry because I’m late? I take a deep breath. It was unbearable, the whole ride, each second worst than the last. I start to get worried. Stupid stupid stupid I say to myself and over again, until the meaning has unhinged from the word itself. I’m still saying it when my stop arrives. I hasten from the bus quietly but quickly.

I grip the envelope tightly as I walk towards our meeting place. The footprints I leave in my wake fill up quickly. It’s only minutes away, past the heavy iron gates, now clogged with snow, and down the narrow path, lined with stones on either side. There you are. Silently beneath the leafless tree. We kissed under this tree before. Something clicks in my throat. Your face is hidden, but I can almost see your smile. Hear your laughing voice as you scold me for being so late. I place the envelope down in front of you.

Snow silently fills your grave.

“Happy Birthday.” I whisper. 

