I Remember

I found one of my short stories this afternoon, while procrastinating and avoiding assignments, as per usual! It's a story I wrote for an English internal last year, and I've been told so many times to share it. I guess its finally time. :)

I Remember.
by Sara Thompson, 2009

A gentle breeze blows through my window, waking me. The curtains billow out, and outside the crickets still chirp in their steady rhythm. It’s still dark. For a second I smile, when I realise what day it is, and then it vanishes, as once again I am forced back into reality.

I remember.

Judging by the stillness of the house, I am the only one awake this early on a Sunday morning. Good. The task that lies before me is daunting enough without an audience. I roll out of bed and force myself to walk over to the closet. Throw on my togs, shirt, and shorts, and yank my towel off the top of my bedroom door. It’s my favourite one, but its old, and a frayed edge snags on my wrist. The bracelet. I carefully untangle stray pieces of cotton from the multiple charms that adorn the silver links, and finger them softly, reverently. It’s like a map of our lives, this bracelet. Each charm brings back another memory of you.

The house is deathly quiet, but in a peaceful sort of way. I tiptoe down the hall, step over the cat curled up on the rug, and slowly open the back door. Down the steps and along the old path to the shed. The neighbour’s dog barks as I push on the stubborn door. Stupid dog. Remember when we had that dog walking ‘business’ one summer? Visions of you in that jumble of leashes and yaps and barks being yanked down the street make me smile for a moment. Until I remember. “Shutup!” I shout at the dog. He immediately cowers down, whimpers. I feel bad for shouting. It isn’t his fault. None of this mess is anyone’s fault – or so they tell me. This long, horrendous nightmare. If it weren’t for that sudden storm, that horrible freak of nature, you would still be here with me. With us. Together. Our happy little family, the way we were before. Frustrated, I slam all my weight against the door, and it reluctantly jars open.

I’m greeted with the damp, cold smell of forgotten memories and old cardboard boxes. There in the corner sits your once shiny-blue tricycle, now faded to the whitewashed blue of the sky. Your bike helmet hangs on a hook next to the light switch. It still sports splotches of red from when we threw paint at the ceiling fan all those years ago. Boxes of too-small clothes sit stacked in a pile, and on top sprawl your old skates. They’re your black ones with the bright orange stripes. The ones you said I couldn’t use, even though we were twins, and even if I could beat you by mere milliseconds whenever we raced to the mailbox. I remember being mad at you for that. It seems so ridiculous now. My throat chokes up, and I force myself to focus on the task at hand.
The boards. They’re sitting in the back corner, together, as they should be. The way we left them. I stumble over the assorted junk on the floor and softly touch the dark cases. “Yours or mine?” I wonder aloud. Yours, I decide. It feels more appropriate. I pull your surfboard out from behind mine and manoeuvre it under my arm.

How can the world keep going, after all that’s happened? How can the sun keep rising and setting, the seasons keep changing, people keep living? I’ve asked this so many times in the past two months, and each time I reach the same conclusion – life isn’t fair. We were supposed to stick together; we always did. Even though we had our differences, our fights, and the ‘silent treatment’ days that lasted forever because we were both so stubborn. But you were always there for me when I needed you, like an older brother should be. All or nothing, you used to say. Both of us, or none. Even when the guys down the street wouldn’t let me help build the tree house, because I was a girl. Even when I was determined to go on that fishing trip with you and dad, which I soon tired of, to everyone’s relief. You were my other half, my best friend. I could finish your sentences, you read my thoughts. We hid in our secret hideaway and plotted pranks to pull on our parents, or our year seven teacher. Mischievous, daring, troublesome, happy, and together – always together.
My toes sink through the cold, wet sand as I make my way down the beach. It hurts to think how many times we did this together. My head is clogged with memories, and for once, I don’t push them away. They wash over me, crashing down, pounding me from every side. Every sight, every smell, every sound, is a memory.

Seven minutes older than me. But those seven minutes made all the difference. You were the dominant one; you played the role of older brother perfectly. I remember that time you punched Josh Ellis for calling me a fat jerk when I won the top sports award in Intermediate. I said it didn’t matter, that he was only jealous, but you said he had no right to call me that – especially since I wasn’t fat or a jerk.
I put your surfboard in the clear blue water as the memories flood in, faster and faster.
We were together up to the end. I remember the rain pelting down on the windows of our noisy, crowded bus. But the rain was too hard, the truck driver couldn’t see our pale grey bus as we inched around the corner. I remember the sound of brakes screeching, horns blaring, the bus rolling over and over – and then silence. Horrible, terrible silence.

They told me I was in a coma for two weeks. They didn’t tell me you were gone. They didn’t need to. Because, when you died, half of me died too.

I paddle out into the blue-green ocean and stop when I get out too deep. The sun is coming out now, and brilliant rays shine through the water. It’s our birthday today. Sixteen. I yank the bracelet off my wrist and look at all the charms. There’s the hibiscus flower you bought on a surf trip to Hawaii. The Grand Canyon one from mum and dad on our vacation last summer. It’s like a tradition: you, or mum or dad, always gave me one to collect every new place we went. The shiny bracelet is covered now. The delicate silver shimmers in the morning light. The links are so delicate individually, but when pieced together they’re strong enough to hold the weight of a hundred miniature charms. It’s like our family. Pieced together, we could handle the worst life threw at us, but now, with a link missing…
No.
I can’t stand it, all these memories.
It’s too hard.
“Why aren’t you here?!” I shout at the ocean. But I get no response.

The least I can give you is a birthday present. I grip the bracelet tightly in my hand, then slowly, painfully, let it drop down deep into the water. I watch it go until I can’t see it any longer. And I lie back on your board and wonder how I’ll ever survive without you.

And then, for the first time since you died, I cry.